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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227377">I died, but I got better</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun'>Shadowmun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU: Nicolo is born and dies later, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, F/F, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Referenced Underage, Tags May Change, no beta - we die like they don't</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:07:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicolo isn't born before the crusades but much later. He has very different problems with the mastery of immortality. Also... he is mute. Which is a problem, in a world, where barely anybody can write.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia &amp; Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>235</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>536</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Leaving the boy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Probably the AU nobody asked for. Apologies... But I needed to find out, how it would feel to face immortality alone for starters. And I wanted to do it with Nicolo, because I wrote about him most and felt most comfortable with him. So... no shame...<br/>As usual: non-native, only slightly betaed.<br/>Don't hesitate to share your opinion, no matter how bad ;)</p><p>First 8 chapters will be posted in rapid sucession, rest is.... depending on my inspiration... and that is some capricious beast...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is blood on the pillows. And more on the sheets below him. The memory is blurry. All is pain and the overwhelming need to breathe. Nicolo looks around, trying to figure it out. He is in “his” cell in the monastery. His lover, the condottiere, always joked, he would make him take the vows, once he was tired of him. Just like it was done to fallen women. Nicolo didn’t think it was very funny. Judging by the bloodied remnants of sheets on his bed, he has now doted for a more permanent solution.</p><p><br/>
As if Nicolo would spill his secrets. As if he could. Even, if he knew them, in a word, where so few people can read, being mute is being unheard, especially, when you can’t write all that well anyways. The only secret he can reveal is himself. So… why is he not dead? Not even wounded? Whose blood is this, if not his?</p><p><br/>
Nicolo fails to come up with an answer, so he decides to face more obvious questions. One: the door is closed and locked. The monks hate him and the likes of him but are paid to look the other way. How long will it take them to come for him, now, that they think he is dead? Will he starve? Will he die of thirst? Was this the infinitely crueler plan all along? He punches the door a few times, but it is heavy and does not buckle. Also, his attempts barely produce a sound. If only he could scream…</p><p><br/>
Two: the window is far too small to fit through. As a child, he would have been able to wriggle through, but the last few years, aside the condottiere, constantly training for excellence have put quite some muscle on him. He won’t fit anymore.</p><p><br/>
Three: there is nothing to eat in his cell and he used up most of the water in his jug to clean himself, after his former lover left. From what Nicolo knows now, the evening had been exceptionally tender… like a twisted farewell gift.</p><p><br/>
And four: there is nothing in his cell to produce constant and sufficiently loud noise. The sparse furniture is too sturdy to break it. It was intended that way, for most of those cells are inhabited by not very repentant sinners and some true lunatics. He could of course break the jug and the wash basin, but only once. Everything else, his quills, his papers is as silent as him.</p><p><br/>
He won’t give up yet. Searches the cell inch by inch for something, anything. By the third round through all his things, he despairs. It is barely noon yet and he is already hungry. Nicolo hates hunger. It has always been a constant threat to him, like for all orphaned boys on Genova’s streets, but he thought he was beyond that. He isn’t.</p><p><br/>
Very slowly he sits down and starts to cry, sobbing and weeping, and still a mere whisper, overpowered by a sniffle. The tightness in his throat, blockade in his head choke down every noise, when someone could hear it.</p><p><br/>
So… what now. Done with the first wave of despair, he stands up. Thinks. Maybe the window isn’t useless after all. He can’t make a sound, but light. When night falls, a candle might do wonders. He just needs to figure out, how to make someone come and check…<br/>
 </p><p>-----<br/>
  </p><p> </p><p>Two days of failure have left him exhausted. At first, the hunger seemed to get the better of him, but by now, thirst is a far more pressing problem and makes him see strange things. He starts to ponder burning the bedsheets, even by the risk for a truly gruesome death. Fire would at least get attention. Someone would come. Needed to come.</p><p><br/>
He fidgets indecisively with the flint, when the door lock rustles. A monk enters, an old one, obviously prepared to perform the necessary duties on a corpse and now faced with a very much alive Nicolo. Both freeze in shock. Nicolo recovers faster and bolts for the door, but the monk is surprisingly agile for a man of his age and profession. He dodges behind the door and pushes it shut, before Nicolo can make it through.</p><p><br/>
Unable to slow down in time, Nicolo crashes against the hard, metal plated wood and feels something snap. He barely realizes, it is his own arm, the freshly broken bone poking out of the skin in obscene red and white.</p><p><br/>
It doesn’t even hurt, with all the adrenaline pumping through his body. In strange fascination, he watches the blood dripping to the floor, while the broken splinters start to move on their own accord. Agonizingly slow they push back into their place and mend, meanwhile the skin creeps over them, covers them, until no trace of the injury is left, not even a scar. Not even a tenderness of the skin. Nothing at all.</p><p><br/>
Sudden realization hits him, worse than the door. He has been dead, two days ago. The blood staining the pillow, the sheets, is his. His alone. And no human has any right to be alive, after losing so much of it. He has been dead. He has been dead.</p><p><br/>
Carefully he moves back, until he feels the wall at his back, carefully he sits down, leaning against it. Carefully he works out, breath after breath, how not to panic.<br/>
This is madness. He is mad. Everything else just a figment of his imagination. The blood, the death. His lover, the past years. Delusions of a raving madman escaping his little confinement in the only way possible. A mad man who now will die for real. Of hunger and thirst. And it will be ok. If he is a madman, every theft, every kill ever done by his hand is naught. Is an illusion. He will die innocent and go to heaven.</p><p><br/>
There is a solace in that, he cannot resist. Marvels in the very existence of hard, cold, slightly damp ground below his feet. A roughly hewn stone wall behind his back. Small specks of sunlight, wandering through his cell on their own pace. Reality. He cries a bit, sans tears, due to his dehydration. But that is just a bodily reaction. His mind is at ease. No sin, soiling his eternal soul. Not sodomy, not adultery, not blasphemy. Nor theft or murder. Madness is the ultimate escape. If only…</p><p><br/>
Small details keep nagging on him. Brown red droplets by the door, where he dreamt about breaking his arm. Dark and reeking stains on the frugal bed. The remnants of blood itching on his arm and on his back, where he cannot easily reach them.</p><p><br/>
All of those are of course mere manifestations of his ill mind, created to torture him, to disturb his divine peace. He will not fall for them, will he?</p><p><br/>
The door’s lock whispers again, the door is opened. Two more physically apt good brothers step into his cell, followed by the abbot. “Oh, poor child…”, he exclaims with almost believable pity, when he recognizes Nicolo’s current condition. He helps him to his feet and puts him onto the lower end of the bed, which is relatively unharmed. On his command, the monks bring water to drink and to clean up. All of this is done with friendly care, that leaves Nicolo both distrustful and undeserving.</p><p><br/>
Once it is done, the abbot places himself next to him, carefully avoiding staining his tunic with the remaining blood. “I am truly sorry. We did not forget you; we just didn’t know, you were still there.”</p><p><br/>
Nicolo stares at him. It’s a good thing, the abbot knows, he cannot talk, cannot write fast. It makes him except Nicolo’s denial easily, when he asks for an explanation. There is but one… Madness… of course. He is just vexed the monks seem as dumbfounded as he feels. They of all people should know. Or are they just another set of illusions. Nicolo shakes his head and shrugs in the ultimate gesture of perplexity. So does the abbot. He sighs and covers his eyes for a moment, wiping away tiredness and insecurity.</p><p><br/>
“You will have to leave, though. We cannot cater for the likes of you.” Nicolo tries to identify, which of his imagined sins he refers to, but fails. Another shrug suffices anyway, because the abbot goes on, explaining, they will provide him with a fresh set of clothes and two days’ worth of provisions, so he can reach the next town and find work there.</p><p><br/>
They both know, considering Nicolo’s status, mute, poor, without help, it is not very likely. Still, Nicolo is in no position to complain. He nods increasingly confused, allows himself to be led out of the cell and into the next storeroom, where he receives all that was promised.</p><p><br/>
He isn’t even mad or bitter. Fresh clothes and some food are far better than being stranded without. His situation however remains dire. One way or the other. Without the protection of the condottiere, without money, without shelter and work, he is going to perish, probably collecting a series of unpleasant experiences on the way. And above all the question… is this real? Is this another delusion? Either way, insanity lurks.</p><p><br/>
Nicolo dares taking the first steps out of the monastery only, because he is pressured to, in a very polite but urgent way. The door behind him closes with unyielding finality. He hesitates… There is nowhere to go. Nothing waiting for him, but the strange dreams, madness has infused into him. They bear familiarity in all the strangeness, revisit him like new friends. Fighting women, strange moors. Calling. Places impossibly different from everything he knows.</p><p><br/>
If, all probability aside, he is not going mad, then the world is.</p><p><br/>
Thoughtlessly he starts to move. One step first, another. Walking. Running. Away. Away.</p><p><br/>
He can’t go back to Genova, where the condottiere lives. If he wants him dead and realizes his failure, he will see to that. Venice is equally unwise. His clothes, his mannerisms will tell them, where he is from, dooming him to death yet again. To be honest, most cities are off limits to him, their ever-growing rivalry a constant threat. It does not matter. He just goes on, not caring about destinations or plans. When madness reigns, all plans are in vain.<br/>
 </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The way of a priest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Despite walking aimless, Nicolo finds a place to be.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a little clear up from first chapter: Nicolo is not underage (anymore), but still much younger than in the movie.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolo goes north, but it is not a real choice. It just happens to be the first road, he hits, that allows relatively safe travel. Two days’ worth of food do not get him very far, but it does not really matter. He has stolen before and at this time of the year, where fruits are plenty, he will not go hungry. He just needs to find some work, before the winter, long lasting work, that is. Short things can be found all along the way, and easier than expected.</p><p><br/>Harvest those apples for me, I give you shelter for the night, a decent meal, provisions. Clean up my barn, if you want to sleep there, and on top, I will give you a loaf of bread, some cheese even. Help with the unexpected number of guests at the inn, a good beer and some change may wander your way.</p><p><br/>He is a fast learner, and asking for work, just with signs, implying, he does not speak the language well enough, becomes second nature to him. It is helpful to work, though, in so many ways. It not only keeps him provided, but also occupied. It makes him too tired to lie awake in the long dark hours, after waking up from the strange dreams, that still accompany him, as if they were friends. Two women, one more impossible than the other. Both vicious fighters, but gracious lovers. One man, a moor, heathen, praying Muslim prayers to the Muslim God.</p><p><br/>Nicolo prefers the leaden blanket of total exhaustion to these reminders of his insanity. And it works. Most days, he functions well enough, gets through the day without a single strange thought. Most days…</p><p><br/>When he cuts himself during work, it never stays long, even common weariness, caused by unusual movements spares him. He would be able to remove the stubble in his face with a file and walk away from it. Sometimes, he wished, it would work, gives himself small wounds deliberately, to prove himself wrong, to see them bleed like they should. They never do.</p><p><br/>Those are the bad days, when he barely can make it look like he is human. The days, when people avoid his gaze, move out of his way, leave him in fear of something unknown. Those days, he is but a beast. Unable to think, unable to do anything at all but exist.</p><p><br/>Those days, the nights overflow with them. The warriors. The imagined family he never had, never will have, welcoming him into their lunatic tumble to perdition. It is one of those nights, when he finally runs out of luck. He has found no place to stay, because of this, and is camped outside a village, he wants to check out for work tomorrow. The cloak, the monks gave him, doubles as blanket and a small shrubbery shelters him against unwanted attention. It would be a good place, if two drunken mercenaries weren’t literally stumbling over him.</p><p><br/>He wakes up, when one of them pulls him to his feet recklessly and studies him in the dark. The other pushes the lantern he wears right into his face, killing his night vision painfully. “Isn’t this signore Airoldi’s little sleeping room bird? Still not singing, are we?”, he exclaims mockingly, while his comrade shakes their prey to prevent any ideas of resistance. Nicolo understands very well and stays still, waiting, praying in silence, that they will move on. He has nothing, they will want. Or has he?</p><p><br/>They exchange a look over his shoulder and burst into a cruel laughter. “Let’s see, what he found in you, if it wasn’t your song, shall we?” They bring him to his knees, one grabbing his arms and pulling them behind his back, while the other frees his prick from his breeches. It would be an easy job, if he tried. Old Nicolo has performed it more often than he can count. But old Nicolo was an insane boy without future, unwilling to live, unable to die. Nicolo will not be that boy anymore.</p><p><br/>In the rush of the moment, he bites down hard, ripping at whatever he can get, causing a howl of surprise and intense pain. Something hits him from behind, missing his head, but making his whole right arm go numb. Without a thought he turns around and attacks, not even noticing one of his arms breaking under the sheer pressure him trying to free himself, from the man’s grip. He is a small animal, pushed too far, pushed beyond fear. His whole body shakes with rage, while he hits and bites, scratches and kicks, oblivious of the world. He feels no impact from the sword, the man is carrying, no wetness from the blood that gushes down from wounds on his arm, chest, leg. He only stops, when nothing moves anymore, when he meets strange softness, where muscle and bone should be.</p><p><br/>And when he stops, he stops hard. Blood loss, exhaustion finally take their toll and attack what little conscience he has left. He blacks out, just falls to the ground. Maybe he is dying in the process, maybe not.</p><p><br/>When he wakes up again, the sun is already high up in the sky. His tunic is covered in stains of blood and ooze. His hands… he won’t even look at his hands. A nearby stream helps him clean up a bit, but it cannot repair his clothes and it certainly won’t erase, what he is trying to forget, the sight of the bodies, he left behind.</p><p><br/>He stumbles forwards, driven by pure instinct, into the village, into its small chapel, seeks out the priest there and makes him follow him to the garden, where he writes in his neat, if incredibly slow hand into the sand: “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have killed two men tonight and I fear, I am beyond redemption.” Silently the priest waits, carefully avoiding any sign of impatience. When Nicolo is finished, he promises in a low, friendly voice: “We will see to that, child. But first, you need to rest.”<br/> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo sleeps. Long. Although he has just woken up. The journey and its end have been more taxing, than he realized. When he wakes up, the priest offers him food and water, which he takes, even though he deserves neither. After the meal, the priest offers him a small slate and some chalk, asking for his story. Nicolo offers no excuses or explanation, just asks for the priest’s judgement and the means of his satisfaction.</p><p><br/>Nicolo does not know, the villagers have been more forthcoming and told the priest, what they found, told him of the remnants of two mercenaries, beaten up beyond recognition despite their armor, weapons and experience. Fear of the divine shook them, when they left, they knew those thugs well enough to know, they showed no mercy and merited none.</p><p><br/>The small priest, humble servant of God, now needs to decide and does so without hesitation. “You will stay with me. You will help me with my duties to this congregation. You will learn proper writing and you will seek to find peace.” And thus, Nicolo’s fate is changed.</p><p><br/>The orphaned boy, the restless wanderer finds a home, finds a purpose. He will do, what is expected from him and learn, what is offered. Everything, a priest may need, except for one thing, that bars him off this life, makes this arrangement temporary. Speech remains impossible, no matter, how hard he tries.<br/> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>In the eight years, Nicolo stayed with father Pietro, a lot of things have changed. One could believe, he is a completely different person. He is calm, balanced, at peace with his chosen path and the past that brought him here. The older the priest gets, the more he relies on Nicolo’s service. It’s the small things, he does not need to do anymore, like preparing his meals, taking care of the house, the garden, the cemetery, that enable him to go on with his job, despite his increasing age. Nicolo all the while remains unaffected. No weather, no loss, no tragedy leaves marks on his ever-young face. He grows a beard, to mask it, but it is obvious, he cannot stay much longer, before someone will grow suspecting. Probably it is already too late. At least father Pietro must have noticed. Yet, he never says a thing. Moreover, he cares for Nicolo’s mind and soul with the same tenderness that Nicolo applies to Pietro’s health. Whenever he wakes from his strange dreams, dreams, that still haunt him frequently, riding into battle along with warrior women and moors, Pietro rises with him, listens without judgement, allowing them both to sleep in quiet afterwards.</p><p><br/>He is a light sleeper. As is Nicolo now, always alarmed not to let come the older man to harm. This is, why he wakes, one night, to whispered words, addressed to him, but not meant for him. He may play asleep, but he cannot refrain from listening, however hard he wished, he could.</p><p><br/>“I do not know, who clipped your wings. All I know is, it wasn’t the Almighty, for you are full of his grace and mercy. I pray to the heavens that the day is close, when you will regain them and be bestowed upon all the honours of God on your return to heaven.”</p><p><br/>With closed eyes, he sheds silent tears, feeling father Pietro casting a blessing onto his motionless body. Guiltily he ponders the unwilling intrusion of this intimate moment, guiltily he remembers, he is just a sinner redeemed. Or is he? Mercilessly all his sins and misdeeds, confessed and not, raise their ugly heads, from the two dead mercenaries to the fornications of his former life, lies, swears, back to the first apple he nicked at the innocent age of five.</p><p><br/>Is he redeemed? Is he forgiven? Pietro believes so, but Nicolo doubts it. Eight years of service haven’t done anything to his inability to die. He rises silently, when Pietro starts to snore and leaves the room. The chapel next to their little house lies in darkness, but after all those years, he needs no candles to find the altar.<br/>There he kneels, bowing his head in reference and praying. Really praying for the first time in a very long while. Praying with all the beauty of his voice, wordlessly intoning the chorales barely remembered from his early childhood, when he did not understand, what the sisters of mercy whispered to the Lord. The Almighty in heaven is the only one, who can hear him, for whom he can raise his voice. The only one to hear his pleas for guidance.</p><p><br/>At first, during the cursed minutes, where he searches for the melody, he believes, his years of service have done naught. But then his voice finds its way to the songs, and he knows, believes with all his heart, God is listening. That He can and will forgive the sins of the past, if they are truly regretted. It pours layers and layers of balm over the festering wounds of his heart, rebuilds him once more like the faith of father Pietro did before.</p><p><br/>When his heart and voice sing in unison of this epiphany, sad notes sneak into the song, one sting left on his otherwise healed heart. He must leave, while he still can. The chapel. The village. All the small people, he grew close to during his stay. Most of all, father Pietro, a mentor, a father, if he ever had one. He finishes the song, stands up, happy and sad at the same time, and goes back to his duty, preparing their breakfast, carefully avoiding any noise that would wake up the old man.</p><p><br/>When it is time, he brings it to their room and puts it onto the table and helps father Pietro to get ready for the day. They eat in their usual silence and he waits, until they are finished, before he kneels before him, wordlessly asking for a blessing.</p><p><br/>The priest hesitates, his hand hovering above Nicolo’s head. “You will leave now… won’t you?” Nicolo nods softly. Looking up, his eyes pleading for forgiveness and understanding. The hand connects with his head and plays idly with the soft strands of his hair. “I knew, this day would come. I expected it sooner. You have been the light of my old age and I am thankful, God sent you to me.”</p><p><br/>His thumb tenderly draws a cross on Nicolo’s forehead, while the other hand cups his cheek lovingly. “Please, take my blessing and… fare well.” The solemn, somewhat sad tone, changes, when he pulls Nicolo to his feet, not really helping, merely giving momentum.</p><p><br/>Without thinking, he falls into the pattern of talking he usually uses around Nicolo, unimpaired by his lack of answers. He explains, he pondered, what to give an adopted son on his departure for a very long time. What he finally hands over to Nicolo is beyond his understanding. A small book, not a bible, but a collection of prayers, tiny letters on tiny pages contained in a durable leather pouch. And a sword, taken from a mercenary eight years ago and improved to the best of his ability by a local smith. He tries to give them back but Pietro refuses to take either. Instead, he takes the promise to use both for the greater good of small people and in reference with God. Nicolo agrees. Then he leaves.</p><p><br/>It is hard. But looking back, would be even harder. He is not sure, he could do it then, so he walks on, no longer in fear, but driven by a purpose to put all his gifts to use.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Purgatory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Back on the road meets a cruel enemy and finally some friends. Or are they?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I appreciate all the support, I have received, though it gets me a little anxious if I can live up to your expectations.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolo isn’t slow on his path north, but the plague rising its ugly head in Sicily and Venice and roaming the land like the biblical rider of the apocalypse is much faster. First, rumors spread about a death, so sudden and terrible, it seemed like heaven’s retribution unto this sinful plane. A death of blackening sores, swollen tongues, of earth-shattering cough and burning fever. A death sparing neither the young nor the rich. Within the first month of his resumed journey, he finally comes face to face with it. And he doesn’t blink.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t come by surprise. For days, no village has wanted him to stay, some going as far as to threaten violence. Or offer provisions, just so he would leave. To be honest, he was not above accepting that. He needs to eat. But this village is different. No one greets from afar, asking for his whereabouts and requesting him to move on. The few farmers on their fields seem to be strangely disinterested about the world around them. The village itself is worse. Even the most basic tasks are performed at snail’s pace, while all but the smallest children throw nervous looks at one of the houses, staying away as far as possible. One young mother, a child on her hip is friendly enough to advise him, what lies here waiting, suggests, he should run for his bare life. Nicolo disagrees. What is his inability to die, if not used to help these people? Just the allegoric wasted talents, bestowed by God and discarded for the fear of use.</p><p> </p><p>So Nicolo stays, watching, how the illness claims the houses and their inhabitants one by one. He does, what he can, oblivious to the risks, looking for children, when their mothers can’t, holding the hands of the dying, cooking food and mending fences. No menial task is below him; no sign of impending doom scares him away.</p><p> </p><p>A little pride nests in his heart, when some people in his care recover, sending thankful praise his way, while he moves on to the next task at hand. Sadly though, courage and gratitude leave them, when he finally falls ill himself.</p><p> </p><p>He finds himself a barn, already shivering feverishly, and retreats to it. He starts to hate himself for the mere idea to stay, despite the plague. He may be unable to die, but he is very much able to suffer from pain, fear, desperation. For hours, he lies on some piles of hay, freezingly cold, coughing madly, unable to pray, soon even unable to think straight. He wheezes, sobs, cries. To no avail. And one death isn’t even enough to keep the illness at bay. The grip of the plague is such bad, he is caught up in a cycle of dying and pain that makes him wish to die, screaming or too weak for even that, while his body tries to mend itself, tries to figure out a way, how to survive.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>He is back in his cell. Is he? Or rather… something resembling his cell if let fallen into disorder and disrepair for several years. How long has it been, that he was caught up in madness? Surely, he should be dead by now, if no one is present to care for him? The angles are all wrong though. The room is bigger but lower than he remembers. Of course, again, just a trick of his mind, he reasons. The bed below him is no furniture at all anymore. Just a pile of stained rags, smelling, no: reeking of sweat and dried blood. Of death. Blood shouldn’t smell for so long… His head is heavy like after a night full of too much bad wine, his throat dry and sore. A sudden thought crosses his mind and makes him move. Check the door, check the door! With a grunt he stands up and walks surprisingly steady over to it. It is in no better state than the rest of the cell, even locked, it won’t be able to hold him back anymore. Strange… He would have noticed, would he? And it wasn’t even locked at all…</p><p> </p><p>It opens with an embarrassed creaking, when he starts to push. In utter contradiction to his memory, beyond lies a common room, big enough for at least ten people. A fire gleams in the middle of the room, with three people lounging around it. Nicolo’s eyes flick from one to the other, never daring to stay more than a second, albeit still taking in all the disturbingly familiar features. The warriors. The women. The moor. This cannot be true.</p><p> </p><p>Shocked, he stumbles backwards, searching for something to hold on, searching for the steady support of everlasting monastery walls. With a loud thud, he falls against it and slides to the floor, alarming them to his presence. “Look, who is awake!”, the smaller, more exotic woman announces, unnecessarily, while his eyes, widened in shock, wander from face to face yet again. He raises his hands, waving in defense. If only he could talk to them, tell them, he means no harm, but even the notion of making a sound is enough to choke him in this moment of panic. He struggles for breath, struggles for support, struggles to hold on bare consciousness. Suddenly, they are all around him. Gentle hands pull him up from the floor. He is too preoccupied with something between terror and marvel to really understand their names, when they introduce themselves to him. There is no point anyways, he will never be able to use them. He also fails to answer. Of course.</p><p> </p><p>They stand there, waiting, and the seconds stretch uncomfortably, ticking by slowly until they seem to stop at all.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo claws his own throat and hits it with his closed fist, shaking his head vigorously. He repeats the motion, until understanding dawns in their faces. Then he moves on to a scribbling gesture, hoping, they are capable of reading as he is of writing. “Can you understand us?”, the bigger woman asks. It’s a stupid question. He nods nevertheless and tries a first, shy smile. It is met by the most shining grin from the moor and some amusement from both the women. He feels strangely calmed, like he is coming home, being welcomed, even loved in time.  Nicolo wished, he could embrace this feeling without a second thought. But he does not know them, dreams aside. Who they are, what they do. If they are even real.</p><p> </p><p>It is hard to resist though. They are persuasive. The give him food, water, even new clothing. They produce some strange looking paper and charcoal, so he can write his name for them. The sit him down and they explain everything. They tell him about the eternity, that stretches before him, about their chosen path to help people in need, about their difficulties to find him. They apologize, it took them so long, and they welcome him as a brother in their midst.</p><p> </p><p>It washes over him like a wave of well-meant hospitality, so overpowering, he could drown in it and die happy. He still hesitates. Not because of them. There is no doubt of their good intentions.</p><p> </p><p>Because of him. He has nothing to give. He is neither good nor kind, neither warrior nor traveler. All he can be to them, is a burden. Broken dreams, broken mind, broken voice.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to tell them as much, scribbling furiously in letters, shrinking in size with the declining space on the paper. They won’t take no for an answer.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, the leader, going by the name of Andrea, he knows by now, orders him (and it is an order, for sure) to at least try. Lacking other options, and unwilling to see her angry, he obeys, joining the probably most unusual company of travelers in the world.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A bit short, this one, but I promise, the next will arrive soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Worship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A first step in the right direction.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I probably can't keep up this pace, but for now: here you are.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He grows fond of them quickly. Enjoys the easy company of Quynh, her stories, about animals so big they can be mistaken for small mountains and forests, so deep, no light touches the ground. He spars with her endlessly in blissful ignorance of time and space, mastering new techniques, every day, although every muscle seems to scream in pain.</p>
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<p>He beams with every sparse praise from Andrea, hangs on her every word, when she is in the mood for stories. And let’s himself getting beaten up, mercilessly, when she shows him barehanded (and barefooted) fight.</p>
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<p>But it is one name alone, that beats in his heart, every waking moment. Yussuf, Yussuf, Yussuf. He has no idea, how this happened, he did not intend to, and it is very inconvenient. In fact, it is a big problem. He has never been in love before. He thought so, but that was mere attraction… or the allure of power, money, shelter. This is different.</p>
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<p>It kills him, just to look at Yussuf. Hearing the soft voice of his praise sends shivers down his spine, feeling his anger, when Nicolo messes up, is as much punishment as he can take. He dares not even touch him in constant fear it might transpire. Because each time, he does, his body flinches like it was struck by lightning.</p>
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<p>Nicolo dreads every moment in his presence, for the torture to feel that way, to desire, to long, to see, what he cannot touch. And still, he cannot resist the temptation to bath in his warm smiles, listen to the soft murmur of the poems, he recites, most of them in languages, Nicolo does not understand yet.</p>
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<p>It is hopeless. How could he ever? He could not stand the disgust in Yussuf’s face, if he reacted like most men do. And pity… would be even worse. But the most devastating option would be… that he was one of the few, with his… affliction, who dared to challenge God’s law for this sinful endeavor. Because then, it would be only on Nicolo himself, too young, too bad, too… broken, to be of any interest to him.</p>
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<p>Nicolo is no martyr. He cannot take it much longer. He cannot stay this way. And he cannot ask either. He is growing much too attached to the women to face their disapproval, to destroy, what they have. He knows, they look at each other like that. But they won’t allow him to destroy the sensible balance, on which this company depends. He will have to leave. And he will obey. It’s only a matter of time.</p>
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<p>Destiny strikes faster though, than he ever imagined, hits them with a sudden early onset of winter, while autumn should still be in full strength. That close to the mountain range called Alps, and rising higher every day, the weather gets unpredictable and treacherous. Falling temperatures and small amounts of snow seem a catastrophe to Nicolo, who never faced such without a shelter, but the others are well prepared.</p>
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<p>They find a small ditch with some trees around it to shelter them from the wind and raise their tents. They do not waste valuable wood to build a fire in the snow. And they suggest sleeping in pairs to share warmth. It is only natural, Andrea and Quynh want to stay together, like they always do, which leaves Nicolo with Yussuf. In sheer panic of the moment, he shakes his head almost violently, until Quynh volunteers to stay with him, despite… everything.</p>
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<p>This evening, they share no laughter, no stories, not even looks. After a meagre meal, they shuffle into their blankets, laying in the dark. Nicolo uneasily wraps his arms around Quynh and ponders his personal hell, breathing in uneven, labored intervals. Quynh stays silent for a while and he hopes, she has fallen asleep, so she won’t notice, his distress has not settled at all. This, however, proves pointless, when she makes up her mind and talks to him.</p>
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<p>“This isn’t right, Nicolo. I have no idea, why you hate him so much. He has been nothing but good to you.” Nicolo freezes in shock. She can’t be serious… but she goes on and on. “If you even… tried to get along…” In utter defiance, he shakes his head and is fully misunderstood.</p>
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<p>Angrily she pushes him away and whisper-yells at him: “If it’s up to me, you can freeze yourself to death.” And like that, she leaves for the safety of her travel partners and Nicolo stays. Alone in the cold darkness, that creeps into his blankets soon enough. First, this is a relief. No need to explain, what he can’t. But all too soon, it gets unpleasant and then painful. He won’t be able to sleep like that.</p>
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<p>Frustrated and somewhat scared of tomorrow, he coils into himself, wrapping the blanket around him, as completely as possible, torn between tiredness and shiver.</p>
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<p>Time passes. No… time flies. Next thing, he knows, he feels all warm again, a body pressed firmly against his back, holding him steady and incredibly snuggly. The smell surrounding him is… sweaty, yes, but pleasant, masculine and strangely familiar.</p>
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<p>Nicolo dares not even take a breath. This can’t be… This is a dream… or rather a nightmare. A faint wheezing escapes his lips, but it is enough to disturb Yussuf’s sleep.</p>
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<p>He is still drowsy, but Nicolo’s tense posture alarms him quickly.</p>
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<p>“What is it?” he whispers softly, his breath at Nicolo’s neck causing him to tighten up even more. It takes Yussuf time to realize, no external danger causes this distress. He grunts annoyed and peels himself of Nicolo’s back, hissing low, but angry: “Am I too disgusting or too scary for your likes?” Nicolo turns to him, unable to express himself in the near darkness of the tent. He is close to tears but has no way to make himself heard. His condition has never been so frustrating. On the other hand, what would he say anyways? What?</p>
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<p>In a sudden panic reaction, he catches the dark figure before him with both hands and plants a rushed kiss onto Yussuf’s lips. Scared by his own courage, he jerks back and flees. Out, out of the tent, into the darkness, the snow, that continues to fall. He takes cover below one of the trees around their camp and huddles there, breathing heavily. His hard is burning as hot as his hands are cold. He is caught between ice and fire. But ice is winning… He has never been so cold in all his life.</p>
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<p>In the morning, he will pack his things and leave. He has done enough damage; they won’t even miss him. Until then, maybe he will die, once or twice, who knows… It’s a good thing, as it stops the crying, isn’t it?</p>
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<p>A shadow appears by his side, surrounds him with a cloud of warmth, as he hugs him, brings him back to life. In a small amused whisper, Yussuf states: “if you want to hide from me, you will need to be much quieter.” Nicolo shrugs with bittersweet joy and does not resist to be wrapped into Yussuf’s warm coat, nuzzling his face against the others body. He lets Yussuf guide him back into the tent, allows him, to push him back into the blankets. Soon they are back to their original pose, differing only in the way, Nicolo relaxes into the embrace. It does not mean everything is in order now. It will be hard, to work everything out. And possibly it does not work out at all.</p>
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<p>But Yussuf has not rejected him. Even came after him. Just now, his face is so close to Nicolo’s skin, his breath sends little jolts of warmth into his body. There is hope. Maybe he can stay. Can look, even touch. Maybe, if he is really lucky, he is allowed to worship the body whose embrace makes the world go fuzzy and irrelevant.</p>
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<p>----</p>
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<p>With the morning comes a rise in temperature. The snow melts and despite the warmth, the light of the rising sun carries a crisp beauty, providing a clarity of the landscape, one can never see during summer. When Nicolo crawls out of the tent, where Yussuf still sleeps, Quynh and Andrea are already awake. They look at him, strangely smug, and Andrea gives her partner in crime an obvious “told you so”-treatment. With the same ease, Quynh scowled at him yesterday, she now hugs him, kissing his cheek cheerfully. He is perplexed and makes no effort to hide it.</p>
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<p>Andrea finally takes pity and sits him down with the hideous concoction she calls tea, explaining to him, Yussuf has bored them with endless romantic descriptions of Nicolo’s eyes, hands, everything really, almost from the start, making them practically beg for the simplest of all solutions. “Quynh was sure though, you wouldn’t like him”, she ends, winking at the other with no small satisfaction. “She is probably just jealous. No one is good enough for her little brother.”</p>
<p>
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<p>Quynh objects: “As if you were less protective, if you felt, someone would take advantage of him.”</p>
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<p>Before he can react, Andrea ruffles his hair and grins. “Such innocence can take advantage of no one.” Embarrassed he closes his eyes and fails to decide, which is worse. Being suspected to take advantage of someone or being too naïve to do so. His uneasy smile stays with him, until their attention ceases, because Yussuf is finally awake and ready for his breakfast.</p>
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<p>Fortunately, he is excluded from their chatter, when everyone packs their things and they start to move again. It is so easy to find his place by Yussuf’s side, relieved of all his fears. And it helps him, keep his pace, when they speed up to reach the other side of the Alps, before more snow arrives, cutting off all passes and trapping them in an icy prison.</p>
<p>
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<p>There is no time to talk, even for the others, who don’t have to sit down to write for that. They are to breathless most of the time. It’s a good silence, feels so natural, like if he already belonged here, by Yussuf’s side, watching his back both metaphorically and literally.</p>
<p>
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<p>He is still unsure, what to say, or rather, write, when the time comes. But with exhaustion comes calm, forming a blanket, that slowly suffocates any remaining doubt.</p>
<p>
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<p>In the evening, there is no discussion. They share a silent meal and arrange their bedrolls in pairs like it is the most common thing to do.</p>
<p>
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<p>It is not that easy to Nicolo. When Quynh and Andrea go to sleep, he stays by the fire, trying to think. It is too late and too dark to write. Talk will have to wait. He shares a look with Yussuf and sighs. Again, he is reduced to breaths and to the most visible gestures and expressions. How do you declare love with such limitations? And would he even, if he could?</p>
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<p>The simple fear to mess up again paralyses him, keeps him in place, all tiredness aside. When Yussuf sits down next to him, he can feel his warm body, pressed against his side. “We will figure it out. I promise.” Nicolo leans into him, lets his fingers wander up his arm, until he can wrap them around his shoulder. Turning, he plants another, more courageous kiss on the corner of Yussuf’s mouth, daring to move on, until their lips meet. In lack of words, his body needs to do the speaking.</p>
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<p>His tongue shyly begs for entrance, instead of just pushing forward. He feels Yussuf inviting him in and nipping at his lower lip, an invitation to a play that could go on for hours, if he wasn’t sitting so awkwardly turned.</p>
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<p>Reluctantly he pulls back, kneels before his icon of beauty and begins to stroke the side of his legs, his thighs. Yussuf tries to pull him up and into his lap, but he shakes his head and frees his arms to go on. Let me do this for you, it means. Finally, his love relaxes, lets him lean in deeper, lets him do as he pleases.</p>
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<p>He smiles at the faint moan, when his hot breath hits home first, still through the fabric of Yussuf’s clothes. Loves every forced exhale he can compel from him with the little movements of his hands. Never before was he so drawn to it, never before he wished to make it last as long as possible, just concentrating on worshipping the body he is allowed to caress.</p>
<p>
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<p>Yussuf whispers urgently down to him, torn between pleasure and the guilty realization, everything is centered at him and only him. Nicolo does not want him to start thinking, so he speeds his plans up and frees Yussuf’s manhood. It feels different from wat he was used to, but that is only fair, he does not mind at all. Longingly he tongues out. He feels very sure now. It is right there, the path he needs to walk. He does not hesitate. His mouth, his lips, his tongue were made for this. A declaration of love, unheard but deeply felt. It leaves Yussuf breathless, helpless, defenseless, and loving every minute of it. His hands find their way into Nicolo’s hair and stay there, soft, never forceful, until they flex in the final moments, unable to hold on onto anything but him. He licks his lips, when he rises again, savoring even the taste, the smell of the moment. Now he can ease himself into Yussuf’s lap, allows himself to relax with the kisses and strokes of his lover. Yussuf will be unable to return the favor tonight, after the strain of this day and the results of what Nicolo just did. But it does not matter. Feeling his embrace, when they crawl into their blankets, relishing his warmth and his smell is already more than enough.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Doubts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A fight and its aftermath</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a short chapter, but I promise, there will be more soon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Months go by in the wink of an eye. The women oscillate between being happy for Yussuf, being bored or being outright annoyed about that much a show of affection. Yussuf is very outspoken about it, as Nicolo only starts to learn, as his grasp on different languages the group speaks between them improves. His answers are necessarily physical in nature. Compared to Yussuf’s poetic monologues, even the best of his handwriting pales. Not to mention the furiously annoying pace of it. Slower than a snail’s to his racing mind.</p><p> </p><p>So he does, what he can and hopes, he is understood. Cares for their blankets, prepares their tea, learns to clean their weapons. And dares to steal a kiss from time to time. Yussuf, though, is reluctant to be touched. As hard as this is for him, Nicolo understands. He is skilled in giving pleasure, not in receiving it. Just the opposite of Yussuf, who feels lacking in that area, is concerned of taking advantage on Nicolo. He has no idea of the joy, it gives his lover to have him gasping in oblivious extasy, abandoning all thoughts of reciprocity. He will learn, in much the same way, Nicolo now learns the ways of immortality, and if he doesn’t, he will love him all the same.</p><p> </p><p>It is so hard, to master a new skillset, Nicolo knows full well. He is still far from good at fighting, he feels, especially compared to the other immortals. His years at the condottiere’s side were no preparation at all for their fighting stile, and he still struggles to find his place in their well-trained formation. It feels all wrong, he is a disruption to their routines. And in this unsteady time, with the plague on the run and all morality slowly but surely abandoned, he is nothing but a liability. As the day shows all to well.</p><p> </p><p>They are just about to change their direction, heading east now, instead of north, when a ragged band of at least a dozen men passes by in the opposite direction, all the while calculating their value against the possible threat they pose. The result is far from favorable. How much of a threat could two men, and two women, obviously, but who counts them, be, even heavily armed?</p><p> </p><p>The other immortals know before the first club is raised, the first axe is waved. Nicolo isn’t so fast to catch up. Only after the fighting starts, he draws his weapons, willing to stand his ground as good as possible, deflecting strikes and attacks as they come. He has no time to look out for the others. Three man stand against him, one with a long fighting staff, another with axe and shield and a third wielding a nasty club with nails sticking from its head. He cannot even attack, being busy defending himself with rapier and parrying dagger. Just as he deflects the axe with his right, and defends against the staff left, his left knee meets the club and crippling pain shoots up his leg. The only good thing about it is, that the would-be robber is as perplexed as him, giving him the chance to push the dagger right into his chest, just when it comes free from the staff. Ridding him of one opponent costs him dearly though, as he cannot defend against the staffs next strike to his head. Dizziness and nausea set in out of nowhere. He ignores it, because the axe-fighter follows up with a strike aiming to behead him or at least getting as close as possible. All Nicolo can do, is to fall to one knee, diving below it, hoping, his wounded leg heals fast enough to enable him to stand up again. As positive side effect, he gets a free, if ungentlemanly attack on the staff-wielder. He allows himself some satisfaction for the resulting scream, as the axe comes down again. This will hurt, no matter what.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo throws himself to the right, awaiting the impact, hoping only to be hit on his already injured leg. He does not get so lucky. Just as the axe is about to hit, a raging shadow jumps right over him, taking the axe right into his chest, while cutting its owner down. Nicolo’s breath stutters. He has never seen any of the immortals die, least of all Yussuf. Disregarding the pain in his leg, he crawls over, pulls Yussuf’s head int his lap and strokes his cheeks gently. Watches in desperation, as the light in his lover’s eyes dims and disappears. Bites down on his lips and smothers a silent sob, shrinking under the lifeless stare. Quynh and Andrea step closer, but he does not even notice. His world coils up into a focal point, the unbeating heart, the unseeing eyes below him.</p><p> </p><p>‘Wake up!’, he thinks. Whispers. Screams.</p><p> </p><p>“WAKE UP!”</p><p> </p><p>It is a prayer. God will hear it. Needs to hear it. The immortals stare at him, he does not understand, does not even notice. “Wake up…” A whisper. But this time, he feels it himself. The exhale. The sound. It does not matter. If Yussuf stays cold and dead in his arms, nothing matters. “Wake up…” Desperately silent, less than a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf’s body bends over coughing. Nicolo holds him, eases him into a relaxed position. Then, he gives him the most encouraging smile, he can master.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf reaches up, to feel it in his fingertips, while the healing process nears its completion. He will be fine any minute now, the women know, so they switch their attention to Nicolo. “You <em>can</em> talk!”, Quynh snaps. “Why didn’t you say so?”</p><p> </p><p>He frantically shakes his head, afraid, he has reached another dead end with the most fearsome women in his life. He still lacks the skill to explain it to them… He tries, nearly chokes himself in the process, without producing a single word, a single sound. It is futile. His voice is only for God, no matter, how hard he tries, no matter how much he wishes otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>Once more, Yussuf saves him, lends him some spare paper, sprinkled with blood from the conflict, unworthy of sketches, but enough for writing. He needs to get himself a writing board and chalk, as soon as possible…</p><p> </p><p>‘Only works in prayer’ he carefully scribbles, looking for understanding or mercy in their faces. ‘First time, someone is around to hear.’ The paper is small and his writing slow. He stays at the very basics, though Quynh looks absolutely unimpressed. Andrea shrugs and messes his hair up, giving him a big smile. “You did really well, you know? Today, I mean. You are good.” Nicolo doubts it, but Andrea’s praise is sparse, she does not sugarcoat things. So he just nods and lets her help him stand up. A small pat on the back, and back to being the boss it is. Without a second thought she shouts at them for stalling and puts them to work. Quynh checks the robbers for anything useful, including suitable clothes to replace theirs where necessary. Nicolo collects their scattered possessions back into their backpacks and helps Yussuf then, piling the bodies into a small mound beside the road. He insists on creating a small cross out of branches and says some prayers, but there is not much else to do. They have neither the numbers nor the means to bury or burn them.</p><p> </p><p>The other immortals don’t seem troubled by that, they just move on, Nicolo in their midst, but again not fully trusted.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Scratching the scab</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Quynh starts an exploration of Nicolo's past. It does not go well.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Because the last one, was so short, I put that one up too. I am not sure, if I can keep up that pace, but today was good... wrote about one and a half new chapters...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Quynh can’t let go of the topic of his lost or not so lost voice. Starting from the revelation that Nicolo can speak in theory, she digs into him, asks question after question mercilessly. She starts during one of her sparse resting times, but Nicolo is unwilling to submit to her questioning and refuses to write things down for her. Instead, she joins him on their daily journey now, switching places with a reluctant Yussuf and reading into his reactions to each of her questions, whatever she likes.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly it’s about common things, he occasionally even nods or shakes his head, when the questions allow such simple answers, but more often than not, he choses not to answer at all. But in his head, the questions resonate, waking memories and uncovering lots of untended wounds of the past.</p><p> </p><p>All the times and places, when he could not speak, no matter how much he wanted. Not even hum or moan or gasp… not even in pain. Each moment, when he was almost choking, because the urge to scream was overwhelmed by a restriction even more powerful.</p><p> </p><p>“Leave him be”, Andy suggests, clearly understanding his pained expression, but Quynh counters, that such things should be uncovered, before they grow into a real problem. She might be right, possibly, but that does not make the prying any less uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>At least, her focus is disturbed, she now jumps from topic to topic, without much lingering. She of course knows by now, he is from Genova, grew up in its streets, had admirers and what counted as lovers back then. She knows, he has been fighting before, though far from as good or consistent as now. She knows, he believes in the powers of heaven and fears its everlasting wrath, but also that he sins and prays for forgiveness as everyone else.</p><p> </p><p>It’s his childhood that keeps her occupied. She smiles at his flustered reaction, when she asks about his parents, deducting all to smart, he has been orphaned. She stops there for a while, discussing with the others, what happens to orphans in Italy in a language, he does not yet fully understand. It leaves him pleasantly uninvolved, gives him room to ponder on his own thoughts. He smiles a bit and blushes slightly thinking of what to do with Yussuf later, when they rest. The very one just now looks over and smiles as well and charms Nicolo like he always does these days.</p><p> </p><p>In a spur of the moment, Nicolo gets flirty, sending misleading signals of both innocence and innuendo towards his beloved. This puts an end to this for the day. Quynh roles her eyes and leaves, mumbling something about their “sickeningly sweet” behavior. Andrea just punches his arm, a gesture of so much fondness and familiarity, even when it hurts, he cannot stand it without smiling back at her.</p><p> </p><p>One last question of Quynh strikes right through the comforted feeling, he just had, hitting so deep, he stares at her in utter shock: “Did they hurt you at the monastery?”</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>They are standing in a row, 16 boys, ranging from 2 to 8. Anyone older is expected to work, to pay for his own means. Nicolo will not wait until 8. He is over with it now, at just 6. Always hungry, sore knees from hours and hours of praying, black and blue from what is called discipline around here.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Today will be a special day. And special means usually bad. The bishop will be here later. Sister Barbara instructs them, what is expected and orders them to behave. “But I’m hungry”, Fillipo pipes up. He is new. His mother turned him in a week ago, because she is dying and can’t take care of him anymore. Sister Theresa was waiting behind their backs and steps in now. With a brutal jerk she pulls him out of the line. All the boys flinch, as she backhands him, blood spraying from his split lip. “You will suffice on what the Lord gives you. And you will not speak up unless in prayer.” She turns him around, pulls his pants down and hits him with a switch, she carries around most times. Repeatedly. She passes right through sore and only stops, when the first bleeding cuts appear.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No one speaks, no one cries, no one moves. Even Filippo is too shocked to wail. They all know the drill.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s nothing so fancy as a flashback. More like shadows, lost in soothing darkness, now revealed by the unwelcome light of Quynh’s ongoing interrogation. Nicolo struggles for air, unable to even move his eyes of her. When his hands start shaking, Yussuf catches up, embracing him and pulling him away. The eye contact breaks and with it the dam of Nicolo’s self-control. He shakes in barely contained rage but does not know, where to direct it. Tears flow over his cheeks and dissolve into Yussuf’s shirt. He tries to pull away, to fight the protective shelter of Yussuf’s arms but is relieved, when he finds himself unable to break free.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, he settles into those arms and sobs silently, until all tension is gone. Quynh draws near and pats his back, muttering an apology, he easily accepts. She is neither the reason for his outbreak nor a fitting target, no matter how annoying her prying might have been. But it takes him some time to fall back into his usual relaxed self, and he is glad, neither of his travel companions seems to notice the sniffling and wiping his eyes goes on for quite some time, even after he leaves Yussuf’s embrace, so they can continue their journey.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Small reliefs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Some tension between Yussuf and Nicolo is about to explode.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The next chapter needs some rework, so no second update today... I hope you are happy with this one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Months go by, and a certain routine is established. They train in the morning, move in the afternoon, as the world around them crumbles under the weight of impending doom. And late at night, Nicolo and Yussuf approach their other lessons. At first, it is difficult. Neither can leave his role behind so easily. Yussuf is reluctant to touch, with the little experience he gathered from prostitutes and occasional trysts. He is too insecure, especially when he can only judge by movements in the dark, his lover’s breath, his touch.</p><p><br/>Nicolo can hardly relax, give himself up, allow his lover to take over. It still works somehow. There are successes and throwbacks, until one evening ends in a catastrophe so complete, Yussuf just leaves. Swearing under his breath he moves away from the camp, searching for an outlet to his building anger, while Nicolo stays, more destroyed than if he had to take a beating from Yussuf. Quynh and Andrea act as if nothing happened, which is probably best, but it still hurts like hell. In the end, Nicolo makes up his mind and carefully follows the sound of Yussuf’s swearing out into the night. It’s no easy task, navigating through the wilderness in scant light of the waning moon, with nothing but a sound to guide him. He falls, pulls himself back up, several times. When he finds him, Yussuf is a mere dancing shadow, reducing a small tree to shreds with his ever-sharp scimitar.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo watches for a while in the knowledge, that approaching unannounced could end in a lot of pain and an untimely death. Eventually he finds some twigs he can break to make his presence known. It takes a few for Yussuf to notice, and when he does, his reaction is far from what Nicolo expected. He hesitates just a second, before running right at him, pulling him up and pushing him against the next tree. “Why can’t you just… let go…”, he growls, and Nicolo is unable to decide, if he refers to their shared mishap or his continuation here.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs helplessly and struggles, until he can get at least one arm free to cup the cheek of his lover, stroking it softly with his thumb. Yussuf moves against him, catching his mouth with a violently eager kiss. Still angered he conquers Nicolo’s lips, occupies his tongue. Nicolo can’t deny the effect on his body. He loses track of his breath, his hands flex on their own around Yussufs arms. When did the other get so possessive… Nicolo just now finds out, he likes it, drinks each gulp of air from Yussuf’s lips and shivers in painfully intense excitement. Here, now, with no choice, but to let it happen, his head falls back, exposing his defenseless throat to dozens of small bites and pecks, making him gasp for air. He pulls Yussuf even closer to show him, he wants him, needs him to go on. His lover’s hands are all over his body, no longer pinning him, but embracing, caressing, stroking.</p><p> </p><p>Just now, Nicolo is nothing but eager, needy, disarmed. He can feel himself scratching along Yussuf’s back, leaving deep marks that bleed, before they heal over, but he cannot stop it. Yussuf counters it with a bite to Nicolo’s shoulder, yet, it doesn’t hurt, it only grounds him, helps him to hold on. Yussuf has not even touched him yet and he already falls apart in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>‘Please….’, he thinks, pressing himself closer against Yussuf’s body. ‘Please.’ His lover’s lips leave his neck, stray across his collarbone, down to his chest. A chocked moan escapes his lips, then another, while he can feel licks and kisses and nips moving on, down… closer… He cries out, when Yussuf kisses his thigh, pulls his pants down to expose him. ‘Please.’ He holds onto the tree to keep himself from falling, collapsing onto the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf’s hands stroke his legs, he can feel his breath, so close… He moans in fierce need. ‘Please…’</p><p> </p><p>“Please… PLEASE…”</p><p> </p><p>Losing all control, not even knowing it, he begs for his lover’s care, begs for his release. Maybe Yussuf can read his thoughts, maybe he knows Nicolo better than he knows himself. Nicolo doesn’t even know, he can hear it right now. But he responds willingly. It’s quite different from Nicolo’s own devoted worship, more like conquering what is his, but it feels so good. Yussuf’s lips and tongue on him, reduce Nicolo to a moaning wreckage and uncoil the tension, until there is nothing left but extasy. With a last cry he spills, unable to even warn his lover about it.</p><p> </p><p>Seemingly he does not care anyways. He stays, steadying Nicolo, until he can stand on his own again, before rising and stealing another kiss.<br/>Nicolo does not care either. Tasting himself on his lover’s lips is dangerously tempting, despite the toll these last minutes? Hours? Have taken on him. With a small, stuttering, breathless laugh he kisses back, no longer helpless, but offering himself all the same.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> <br/>“Was that… him?”, he can hear Andrea whisper to Yussuf, later, when he is already in his bedroll, pretending to be asleep, to get time to… well… think. He can feel Yussuf’s distinct nod through the hand that lies loose on his lower leg. He is not sure, what she is talking about, but too happy to ruminate the question. It’s hard to let go, to give up control, to let his guard down. But with this man, it is worth it. All of it. Relaxed, he falls into an easy slumber, but wakes up, when something falls, next to him, with a wet thud.</p><p> </p><p>In the light of the dying flames, he can see, it is Yussuf, an arrow right between his eyes, buried deeply within his skull. With one fluid move, he is on his feet, the sword already in hand. So is Andrea, who storms of into the darkness to hunt for the archer. Nicolo stays to guard the bodies of Yussuf and Quynh, until they wake up again. Soon, the darkness releases several men, circling the fire and its lone defender. He dances around the dying flames in easy stance and keeps his body between them and his comrades, stalling, waiting for Andrea to come back.</p><p> </p><p>But soon, the attackers get bored. One loosens the crossbow he wore over his shoulder and points it at Nicolo. It’s not easy to dodge a bolt, and if he does, he exposes the others, who are still down, the arrows still sticking in their bodies. So, he does not even try, just takes care, it won’t knock him out. It hits him right into his thigh, just below the hip and it hurts. Even worse, it bleeds. More, than he had imagined. But he has no time to think about it. On the bolt’s impact, the attackers storm into the camp, attacking him all at once. He can only do so much. He dances and dodges, jabs and strikes. His breath is fast, but even, his stance would earn him Andrea’s praise. But he does not recognize any attacker anymore. He only sees limbs and weapons, bodies and heads. In strange distance to himself, he recognizes, how he gets weaker, stumbles. But he does not allow himself to fall yet. Andrea isn’t back, Yussuf and Quynh are still down. All that stands between them and their attackers is him. He cannot die just yet. One by one, his attackers disappear. Does he kill them? Does someone else? He does not know anymore. His vision shrinks, the edges just go dark. One last strike, cutting through flesh and bone disturbs his balance, makes him stumble, fall. He does not hit the ground; he keeps falling and falling into the darkness. Deeper and deeper. Silence is around him.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> <br/><em>“Nicolo!” Sister Anna’s nagging voice could rise the dead. It certainly rises Nicolo. “Have you fallen asleep during service, again?” Defiantly he shakes his head but dares not to object. It does not change much. She grabs his ear anyways and pulls him out of the seat into the central path of the small church. There he must wait, until service is over. And then, he is up for a severe beating, no matter how often he pleads forgiveness or explains, he wasn’t sleeping, just thinking… even praying. The sisters’ ears are deaf. They only ever hear, what they want to hear. Wearily he waits his time, lets himself get pulled out of the church, welcomes the pain a decent switch has to offer. It hurts. More than he remembers.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p> <br/>It does hurt, when he comes back to life. His body is far from finished with repairing itself. He can still feel the bones shifting, the flesh crawling. Both are even worse than the numb pain, that fills him. He tries to calm down, tries to listen into the darkness. The warmth of a fire is lingering, but its light is gone. Where are the others? Are they dead? Have they left him for dead?</p><p> </p><p>No… there is another breath, close to him. Strong hands wander over his body, seek for his face, his breath. No questions are asked, knowing, he couldn’t answer them, but a strong, warm body covers him, a face, Yussuf’s face appears above him, almost invisible but for his white, white smile. Even his eyes are pits of darkness, but it is him and he bends down to kiss Nicolo, urgent with relief.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Europe is fine, with all social walls crumbling after the black death... so why not going to Asia?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Late, but okish.<br/>And thank you for all your friendly comments, they really keep me going, although I realize, this will be much longer than I imagined... I will have to tell much more of the story than I ever anticipated... But since it's fun... I am fine with that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Years go by, in the wink of an eye. Trust is build, yet it is never enough to reveal himself. There is always something else going on. Either, they are on the road or they have something to do. There is no time, no paper, no whatever. Besides: Nicolo is happy in the midst of this immortal posse. Once he knows, it is possible, he learns to speak to them. It’s not easy. At first, they can only hear him mumble his prayers, though he does not care to remove himself from them for those. It is well-known territory and helps him get comfortable with them. Soon, he gives a wordless but at least soundful indicator of his most pressing and deepest moods, whenever necessary.</p><p> </p><p>He can gasp in pain, moan in pleasure, cry out in anger. It seems small as an improvement, but after years of silence, even Andromache is impressed, once it happens, then and again. Quynh jumps up and down in joy each time it happens, like a happy spring. Despite Yussuf being closest to Nicolo, she is most insistent to help him find his voice.</p><p> </p><p>These days, she oftentimes repeats each of his prayers, sometimes blasphemously sometimes hilariously wrong, to make him correct her. It works every single time. They connect over it and although Nicolo never admits it, he loves those moments of released tension, easily reciting oh so well-known words, he does not even have to think, as they are ingrained into his very personality. It is then, that even his laughter changes from voiceless smiling to a full and rich rumble.</p><p> </p><p>And everything else is getting better too. Though the plague has raged through Europe and depopulated whole areas, and in some cases, still is, the new value of human life has triggered a bloom of new ideas. It gives strength into the hands of lowborn peasants and allows a spring of arts and culture.</p><p> </p><p>In consequence, the immortals' fighting skills aren’t needed there, and they head east, fighting wars in countries, Nicolo never even dreamt of. Some remind him of the famed tales of Marco Polo, some of which he finds surprisingly accurate, while others differ completely from his own newly made experiences. It is a journey of learning and loving, a journey that makes him realize, the differences between him and Yussuf pale in comparison to the strange people they meet on their way.</p><p> </p><p>Strangely enough, his limited vocal skills don’t do much around here anyways, as he cannot learn the languages as fast as they are crossing their boundaries. Both Yussuf and him rely on Quynh and Andromache completely and even they run into problems from time to time, realizing a specific term or whole dialect has been outdated since they last used it.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually they arrive in the area, where Quynh was born once, guided by rumors of the Ming, whoever that is, invading the country. This proves to be true, throwing all of them right into the middle of full-fledged war.</p><p> </p><p>They have seen little signs of it all along their way, but did not encounter anything serious, so nothing prepared them for the sight of Ðong Ðo (Hanoi). The surrounding is swarming with Ming soldiers, the walls are broken, the screams of innocent and warriors alike fill the air. Refugees flee the city and try to avoid being killed or maimed by the troops outside, while the Ming army is on a hunt so primal, as men can only get throughout war.</p><p> </p><p>The second, the immortals are spotted, soldiers turn to them, filled with adrenalin and search for an easy fight. And instinct draws the warriors forward anyways. There are women and children in danger, sick and old people. This is a slaughter, this is a massacre, and Andromache leads them willingly right into it.</p><p> </p><p>It takes a bit of time, until the full horror of this fight unfolds to Nicolo. At first, he is only attacked by a few relatively untrained men, he can easily dispatch. Soon, however the ensuing battle draws more and more opponents to them, filling the air with blood and mist, with screams and cries. Nicolo falls into a trance, repeating the movements from his trainings and simpler, shorter battles, he knows by heart. His sword jumps and jabs, slashes and cuts. He feels the impact of familiar weapons, spears, arrows, yet, they do not stop him. He fulfills his role within their unit, keeps Yussuf’s back, makes room for Quynh’s arrows, jumps to Andromache’s side, when she pushes forward. The focus, he keeps in battle, makes it so easy to fight, unseeing, unfeeling, sharpened into a point like a crossbow’s bolt. He is wounded, he dies, he stands up again, and he fights, fights like a warrior of legend, like a son of ancient gods, blessed by their unholy presence, going on, unstoppable like the sun itself. The time stops, consists of nothing but flashes of pain, attacking, withdrawing, limbs, heads, screams, a spiral of violence and the immortals in its very center, dying and killing and dying again.</p><p> </p><p>It is hours, before Andromache leads them back out of the battle. They need to climb a literal ridge of dead bodies on their way out. Few try to follow them and pay the ultimate price, but by then they are soaked in blood, guts and gore. They run, run until they find shelter, until the cries from the city fall silent and the vegetation along the river engulfs them. They go on, run, push on, up to the point, where the adrenaline pulsing their veins cannot fight against exhaustion anymore. Where their legs drop from under their bodies and they fall into the mud, losing all strength to go on.</p><p> </p><p>Tired to the bone, they crawl beneath a fallen tree, huddle together and sleep, none of them caring to hold watch, none of them able to do it. A few hours of blessed silence are all they need.</p><p> </p><p>But it isn’t, what Nicolo gets. As soon as the first wave of exhaustion wears of and his body regains some strength, he is back on the battlefield. Within his head, every second plays out, in ways, he didn’t feel it during the fight. Each attack, cutting through flesh and bone, each wet squelching noise, when his sword shakes free of a human body, each pair of eyes going dark and lifeless.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo has killed before, but only in self-defense and far from this scale, this slaughter, this… massacre. The battle trance he enters, once he or his fellow immortals are threatened, shielded him from most of the uglier experiences until now, but this innocence could not last. This is too much, weighing on his conscience, on his bare mind.</p><p> </p><p>Helplessly he watches his body perform the act on its own, again and again, killing, maiming, dancing a deathly dance he only just mastered and wished he could unlearn in the wink of an eye. But he cannot, and his mastery scares him more than anything else. He might not be as deadly as Andromache yet, and Quynh is an absolute menace with her arrows, but his skill already rivals Yussuf’s, while his mind cannot follow the same set. He is not ready for battles like this, never has been. So, he drowns in the overwhelming memories, he just now notices, while he relives them in his dreams.</p><p> </p><p>When the others wake up, he is hunched into an embryonal pose, his head hidden beneath his arms, shivering, sobbing silently, shaken, yet not really awake. Yussuf tries to sooth him by caressing him softly, but he shakes his hands away. A second try is interrupted by Quynh, shaking her head and murmuring something into his ear. Nicolo doesn’t see it and isn’t interested either, he is caught within this nightmare, the real world just a whisper in the background.</p><p> </p><p>When Andromache puts him on his feet and orders him to walk, he does. When she forces him to stay and sit, that is, what he does. Aside this, he is nonfunctional, staring into the distance and dead to the world.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another two days later, days in which Nicolo has barely eaten or drunk and showed no reaction to any contact try, Andromache eventually feels save enough for a longer pause. Quynh finds an abandoned village, that was obviously left due to the invading forces but is still intact. There, they can stay for a few days, regain some strength and face the problem, Nicolo now poses for them.</p><p> </p><p>And as always, it is Andromache facing it headfirst. She sends both Quynh and Yussuf for a hunt to get something decent to eat and once they are far enough, they won’t hear anything, she confronts Nicolo. With ease, she forces him to stand up, from where he was huddling and forces him to look into her eyes. It takes a few hits to the face to make him focus, but well, that’s just how Andromache handles things. “Here, look at me!” Her hand gestures quite clearly, what she expects of him. “One, sulking won’t help anyone. Two, we all have nightmares, get used to it. Learn to ride it. Three, you are not responsible for what happened. They attacked you, they would have killed you without remorse, and then they would have killed the refugees, women, children, whatever. Ok? And four: I cut you some slack, but you will stop wallowing, are we clear?”</p><p> </p><p>It is maybe the longest speech he has ever had from her, and as far as encouragement and caring goes, it voices more of her concerns than most things she says. It is still shitty and unhelpful as hell. It’s like walking through a labyrinth in the dark and instead of guiding him out, she is handing him a chisel… a blunt one.</p><p> </p><p>But he nods anyways, eats, because she orders him, drinks, takes up his sword. Prepares himself for a decent ass kicking. That is the usual, when she gets that bossy. She goes easy on him, though… Guides him through a simple routine to loosen the muscle before drilling on the most basic moves, as they did during their first year together. Stance, attack, back step, defense. Upper left, lower left, upper right, lower right.</p><p> </p><p>The simple and well-known lessons ease him into a semi-trance like state, not quite the battle dance, where he forgets everything around him, but relieving none the less. When they start sparing, he is almost as relaxed, inventive, deadly, as he used to be. It’s a simple comfort, yet, here they are. And it helps, actually.</p><p> </p><p>It won’t drown out the screams and battle cries in his head, it won’t release him from nightmares. It does not make him forget.</p><p> </p><p>But it reminds him, what all of this was for. Saving this, saving them, and saving everything, everyone around them, worth saving. As long, as there is more good than bad in it, it is probably worth it…</p><p> </p><p>It still robs him of his voice, once again. He cannot even pray now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. the roads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Ming war moves on and so does the guard.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am getting myself into real trouble here, posting faster than I can write, but it keeps me motivated... Yet... soon you will get to feel my writers block...<br/>And I guess, this chapter is a bit of a disappointment, because nothing major happens, it just some in between.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their next months are filled with blood and anger. The Ming emperor’s grip over the country is severe and rebellion after rebellion falls under its onslaught. Always it is the weak ones, women and children, who suffer the most and the immortals take it upon them to ease their pain, where possible, tampering the blow of Ming and rebellious soldiers alike, where they can. It’s not a good place for Nicolo’s recovery and he is constantly tired, plagued by nightmares, that make him thrash while asleep and breathless, once he is awake.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly it’s Andromache, keeping his company, when he wakes up in the dead of the night, for she is not a very good sleeper herself. It is rather strange though, up to this point, they were almost distant, compared to his relationship with both Yussuf and Quynh. But in the dark hours before dawn, just the two of them form a bond, very much different to what either of them has with the other immortals. Mostly they are silent. Sometimes, if she is in the mood, Andromache tells him of the past or shares one of her own bad dreams… and how to overcome them. But mostly, it is just silence. Smiles, gestures, sometimes not even that… just the knowledge not to be alone, to be understood and loved, despite everything.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache does not try to coax words out of him. She is not one for showing much open affection either, but she appreciates him and that is enough… he is not lacking, just different. And he can see, it helps her, he is a good listener… When she is in the mood.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Nicolo think of the confessions, and how things always felt less severe, once you shared them with your priest and were forgiven. Andromache certainly doesn’t know the custom, and Nicolo isn’t eager to explain it, lest their nightly pact is disturbed. But he certainly feels more and more like her confessor. And it isn’t a bad thing… it helps them both, coping, so much in fact, that, when she starts to finish her tales with a joke, sometimes actual laughter escapes him.</p><p> </p><p>The only thing is… he might have needed a confessor himself… It would ease the pain he harbored in his heart, remembering all the deaths, all the kills…</p><p> </p><p>To Yussuf’s and Quynh’s disappointment neither of them can help him there or bring his voice back, though their comfort was invaluable still. Without Andromache and them, he wouldn’t have been able to go on, would seek out death, again and again, until it sticks.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he does good work, redeems himself every day, by making the world a safer place for those in need.</p><p> </p><p>Some special occasions of that stand out.</p><p> </p><p>The beautiful village, overrun by bandits, taking advantage of the unsafe times and harassing all the inhabitants, especially the women. Andromache’s approach to justice horrified the villagers, but they remained thankfully none the less and provided the immortals with all provisions they could carry. They even put up a small celebration, where Nicolo first sees (and rides on) an elephant, a huge, yet gentle beast, he had deemed legend, when Quynh first told him about it. He is quite dumbfounded by it and takes a special liking to the way, the breath out of its long nose ruffles up his hair.</p><p> </p><p>The merchant who first tries to swindle them, only to beg for forgiveness, when they rescue him from a bunch of mal-spirited soldiers not an hour later. Quynh laughs in his face, when he tries, and tells him, they didn’t do it for him, but for his poor wife and children. And makes him promise to always take only the best care of them.</p><p> </p><p>The herder with his strange, hunchbacked cows, with those friendly eyes. It is a hell of a work to free his poor beast from the muddy hole they sunk into, but the free and warm baths at the herder’s village afterwards are more than worth it.</p><p> </p><p>And then, the widow with her five sons, the oldest 10, the youngest still in his diapers. They ring a special bell in Nicolo’s chest, when they encounter the immortals and ask for safe passage to the next temple. The mischievous, cute little faces of the boys get all of them. Even Andromache smiles, when she accepts, refusing any payment for this little service. It is not a long way to go, anyways, and Quynh is eager to show Yussuf and Nicolo one of the beautiful pagodas of her country.</p><p> </p><p>And beautiful it is. The building itself a dreamlike structure with curved roofs in dark brown, fulminant red and radiant white. The gardens surrounding it peaceful and unfazed by the ongoing war. The area filled with small men with shaven heads and strange robes, smiling friendly, bowing and folding their hands.</p><p> </p><p>Even Nicolo can figure out, what they are and finds it strangely comforting to find similarities in all the differences, he had to understand about this country. Monks. Actual Monks. Of course, their beliefs differ greatly from his, but the practice is oddly similar. Withdrawing from society and setting onself apart to serve those in need. Choosing a life of prayer and contemplation over the brutality of war. Caring for the soul, not merely the body.</p><p> </p><p>Those men are healers, priests and caretakers, and they welcome refugees like the widow and her sons with ease. They are less happy to receive four armed fighters, but allow them to stay for a time, when the small woman speaks out on their behalf.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Findings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What happens at the buddhist temple.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you like this, tomorrow I will post something very, very emotional... I just have to proofread it, once more.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Nicolo?”</p><p> </p><p>The name sounds strange from the lips of the small, bald man in his brown garb, with his strange eyes and his singing speech. Their languages are such different, that he isn’t sure, he had recognized it right, until he sees the man looking at him.</p><p> </p><p>Beside him, Quynh steps closer and explains, the monk felt Nicolo’s troubled mind and asked her to translate, so he might find a way to help him. Nicolo watches her, less than happy. Why can’t she ever let things just rest? Is this another ploy to uncover his past? Is she unnerved by his constant nightmares? Or does she truly care? With Quynh, it’s always hard to say… She is so easy to smile and so hard to read. Either way, he can hardly tell the monk to back off like that. So he simply asked, what the man plans for him.</p><p> </p><p>The answer though, is far, from what he expects and has nothing to do with speaking. The monk asks him to follow and guides him into a small atrium in one of the temple gardens. There is a paved area, they sit down, Quynh standing aside and explaining, what the singing words of the monk mean.</p><p> </p><p>With his help, Nicolo learns of a different kind of prayer, a different kind of calm. Surely it can’t be the presence of God, the monk has in mind to show him… at least not the God of Nicolo. But that is, what comes in the silence. Warmth, forgiveness, strength. The world outside his mind is but a whisper, though one, he can bid to come back to him, when he wants it.</p><p> </p><p>Prayer. He has missed it, since Ðong Ðo. The assurance, it gives, the wholeness. The monk’s advice brings it all back, and more…</p><p> </p><p>The presence of God has always been a balm on his heart, but he could never choose to pray like that before, could never calm his mind enough to let go. It is a gift, he isn’t deserving, not because he still thinks ill of himself, but because it is so precious, he can’t even start to think of how to repay for it. He writes that much for Quynh into the sand, when they are finished, but she laughs it off and refuses to even translate anything of it.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, she tells the monk something, that makes him laugh and nod encouragingly towards Nicolo, patting his forearm and grinning so intense, the top of his head might fall off.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can’t resist smiling back awkwardly, hoping, the monk will understand him anyways, despite Quynh’s capriciousness.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The Chinese invaders don’t attack temples. But bandits do, as the immortals find out, just before they were about to leave. Andromache had them prepare their packs early in the morning, so they could leave by first light, when suddenly, screams echo outside of their rooms.</p><p> </p><p>The warriors don’t hesitate. And for the very first time, neither does Nicolo. Within a heartbeat they are outside, running towards the screaming, looking for its cause. In the darkness of predawn, it’s hard to identify anything, but the visible pieces are taken from nightmares. Blood is splattered on the sands of the garden paths. Shadows with weapons are running, hunting. Men and boys in brown garbs are fleeing, dying. They put up no resistance, not even, when in direct contact with the reavers. They try to shield their weakest, the young, the frail, the dying, with their own bodies, but they never raise a hand against the attackers.</p><p> </p><p>The immortals have no such limits. They jump into the fray and fight. They try to honor the beliefs of the temple by not killing anyone, but it’s a close call, from time to time. The swords of Nicolo and Yussuf are sharp, and Quynh’s arrows leave a man at an inch of his life. Andromache… oversteps from time to time… But there was nothing to be done about it. She can’t stand people killing unarmed innocents. That winds her up even more than the usual banter about women’s lack of ability to fight. There was no going back from this.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, they are far from the most courageous. That price goes to the widow, they accompanied to the temple. When one of her sons, a small, nimble 6-year-old is threatened, she attacks with a mere wooden pole, oblivious to the danger she puts herself in. While she hits the bandit, who dared fight against kids, over the head, Yussuf jumps to her side and Quynh shots deadly projectiles around her, to make sure, she will stay alive for her kids. They, in contrast to her, have nothing to lose.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The rise of the sun reveals all the damage, the attack has done. Apart from the dead and wounded – a gravely price to pay – it is very little. But it is obvious, what the robbers were after. The supplies, set aside to help refugees and keep the temple alive, have been reduced. Without the interception of the immortals they would be gone. And hunger and misery would follow.</p><p> </p><p>Without even considering twice, Quynh and Andromache agree to stay a little longer. At least, until they can find out, where the bandits went and can put an end to their misdoings. The monks are thankful for that but torn to allow it. On the one hand they need the help. They cannot provide even for themselves, when the bandits succeed. On the other hand, the violence of the four immortals contradicts every single one of their teachings.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, they decide to take what the immortals offer them, but separate them a bit from the normal temple life, which is totally understandable and still more luxury than either of them has known for a very long time. For Nicolo, it is the first time ever, that he is provided with everything, without selling small parts of his soul.</p><p> </p><p>Food, a roof, a place to sleep, accessories for painting. And writing. Time to care for themselves beyond the bare minimum. It is the first time, he can sit down and talk, or what passes as talk to him, with Yussuf.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache has made quite clear she is only interested in talking as far as he wants to… And he does not want to, probably never will. Quynh’s prying has somehow disqualified her from knowing anything at all. But Yussuf deserves to ask. Deserves to know.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Confessions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A first serious talk about Nicolo's past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay, I am still ahead. Enjoy this chapter, it is the first, I have written after gaining your support.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A quiet afternoon, with Andromache and Quynh on a trip to check for signs of the bandits in the surrounding area, is the first chance, Nicolo gets and he takes it. His most important relationship is built on nothing, but sand and he can’t go on like that, treading on eggshells, never knowing, when something might break… or might trigger a response, that would break <em>him</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He sits Yussuf down and puts a small tablet between them. There is paper here, but this will be a longer conversation and it feels wasteful to use so much of it. So, chalk on a tablet it is.</p><p> </p><p>“I need to talk to you.”, he writes, his hand a little rusty after all the time fighting.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf nods and sighs. “I have hoped for and dreaded this moment.” His hands move on their own, softly taking Nicolos, stroking the soft backside with his thumbs. “For starters… I… apologize.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo furrows his brows in surprise, freeing his writing hand and scribbling: “What for?”</p><p> </p><p>“For… everything… really…” Yussuf fidgets, his knee constantly bumping up and down in a nervous little dance. “I feel, like I have been taking advantage of you… And shouldn’t. I felt lonely, and you…”</p><p> </p><p>He stutters, searching for the right way to say it, the right words, the right… But there is no right way, so he whispers embarrassedly: “You fit so well into every gap in my life, like it was waiting for you… I just… couldn’t resist.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can’t help but smile… he looks down to fight the tears, but his smile is positively radiating happiness. He breathes in and out a few times, collecting himself, before he can write again. “You don’t need to apologize. You took nothing. I gave it to you.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, they watch the words dissolve behind a thin layer of tears, then Nicolo erases them, writing instead the one thing, he tried to tell Yussuf all the time, with each touch, each smile, each small service. “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Now Yussuf smiles… even more blindingly sparkling than he could. “I know… You already told me so many times. And I love you, too.” He blesses Nicolo with a tender kiss, their lips barely touching.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo pulls back carefully, not because he wants to, but because this is so important. With a sigh, he clears the tablet again, hesitating to erase the three words, he worked so hard to communicate.</p><p> </p><p>Admittedly, he can write them again. Over and over again.</p><p> </p><p>“You…” he plays with the chalk, unable to figure out, how to go on. You… what? When he tries to wipe the word away, Yussuf catches his hand and nods reassuringly. Nicolo swallows and writes it out. “You must have figured out that I was not a good guy, before we met.”</p><p> </p><p>Now it is Yussuf looking surprised, but he says nothing, so Nicolo writes on: “I have stolen, I have lied… I have sold things one should not sell.”</p><p> </p><p>The question of what he sold hangs between them, unspoken. For now, Nicolo is thankful, it remains like that. Just the image, how hurtful it would be to tell his beloved of those men before him, makes him shiver. He will have to. But not yet. Instead he writes: “I do not really know, what to tell you. Nothing is pleasant. And you might…” Another pause filled with scared foreboding. “… not like me that much, afterwards.”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf shakes his head, chuckling. “Love, whatever you think, your sins are. You won’t scare me away. I have seen so much worse. And whatever it was, it brough you here. To me. And it didn’t leave you irreparably broken.”</p><p> </p><p>Didn’t it? Nicolo is not so sure, but he shrugs. “Just ask then…”, he scribbles, but Yussuf declines.</p><p> </p><p>“No… you will tell me. What and when you are ready. I would like to know. But I won’t pressure you into it. Our trust is worth more than your past. Or mine, for the matter. Don’t think, I am a choirboy either.”</p><p> </p><p>He certainly looks like one, with his open smile, tousled hair and friendly eyes. And Nicolo can’t resist to tell him so, resulting in a big, happy laughter. “If only you knew…”</p><p> </p><p>“But I do know!”, he writes, the letters bigger than usual, emphasized, clear. “I do know, how men look, who take advantage. I do know, what they do, how they act, and what they are willing to sacrifice, if it benefits them.  And you are nothing like them!”</p><p> </p><p>Numbly he stares at his own letters, sentence for sentence, realizing, he has exposed much more of his, than he was prepared to. His hands shake so heavily, he loses grip of the chalk. It falls to the floor with a pang and brakes into pieces. He bites his lips, until he can taste blood.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Nicolo….” Yussuf pulls him into a firm hug and holds him, until the shaking stops. His head rests on Yussuf’s shoulders, he feels embraced by his body, his warmth, his smell. It is more comforting than it has any right to be.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf plays with his hair and softly whispers: “If I could take that of you, I would. I would gladly go and kill anyone, who ever did you harm. If you want me to, we go back, back to Genova, and we… make them pay.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo sinks deeper into the presence of his beloved, but refuses. He will not let his past acquaintances dictate, what he is now. And he will certainly not make a murderer out of the man he loves. It takes quite some time, before he can pick up the chalk and explain it to Yussuf, but when he does, the strange tenderness in the other’s face grows even stronger. He can see Yussuf visibly shaken and pulling him back for another, shorter, but no less intense hug.</p><p> </p><p>They do no more talking after that… It has been enough for today, more than enough. He can see it in the way, Yussuf is still fighting… is watching him, when he thinks, Nicolo doesn’t notice. Is taking care of his breathing, so his emotions won’t overwhelm him.</p><p> </p><p>It is hard to admit it, but Nicolo isn’t any better off. He might not have buried his past deeply enough…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You scream, you die. You bite back the pain, you live. And you are compensated with food. With shelter. With warmth. It is a simple rule. And it applies to so many things. To your shaking, tired legs, when you are running from the market, a stolen purse in your hand. To scraped knees and hurt fingers, when you climb some wall to snatch away drying clothing. To the coldness that creeps up the limbs, when you are hiding from the watchmen in the shadows of the darkest, filthiest backyards, hoping, they won’t bother checking thoroughly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And of course, it applies to pleasing patrons at the inns, in hope, they buy you a meal or even take you to their rooms. You either learn the ropes or die trying. You either do, what is necessary, swallow your pride, your pain, your dignity, or you go hungry. And you go hungry too long, you fall victim to everything, you avoided, anyways, for you are too weak to fight back.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Nicolo knows the rules. Nicolo runs fast, hides well, thinks smart and bows low. Nicolo survives. And when he gets a chance, he takes it. This is the chance. This will be his exit from the streets. The man wears good clothing, has two (TWO!) equally well-dressed servants. He smells of soap and perfume. And he looks pleased by Nicolo’s appearance.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He is the one chance, and Nicolo takes it. He will cry nightly, hiding his silent tears, but he will do it clean, warm and on a full belly. And isn’t that worth something?</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. At work</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An interesting approach on bandits.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Due to mis-placing one paragraph, I had to do a major update to the chapter before this. Please check it out once more, just to make sure, you didn't miss something. Sorry about that.<br/>Also: I love your comments. Each is appreciated. Thank you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Quynh and Andy are back, they bring news. They have figured out, where the bandits are hiding, and are eager to teach them a very convincing and potentially final lesson about robbing temples. First, Yussuf is equally keen on it, but after one look at Nicolo he hesitates.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can’t have that. He might be shaken. His bad dreams might have gained a new – or rather old – variant, but he will fall dead, before he lets that defeat him. Determined he dons his armor and weapons, just as Yussuf would do, when he wasn’t so worried about Nicolo.</p><p> </p><p>Finishing up, he offers his lover an assuring smile and goes outside, ready to receive first instructions.  But Andromache waits, until they are complete, before she elaborates on their findings and on the plan, how to go on.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo focuses fully on her, banning every other thought from his mind, for if he even so much as looked at Yussuf now, he might still break down once more. That is exactly the opposite of what he considers a healthy reaction. Besides… with a fight before him, he will be occupied. What else to wish for?</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The bandit camp is like a small town of its own. There is women and children, dogs and pigs, houses and sheds. It would be pleasant, if all the prosperity wasn’t based solely on robbery. Still, there is no way, they can just go in, burn everything to the ground and kill everyone, to make sure, the temple is safe. Instead, they will have to put some decency into the heads of the local leaders. Good thing, Andromache is premium on that.</p><p> </p><p>The immortals agree on a very simple, yet effective plan. At nightfall, they move into the camp, secure the bandit leader and make sure, Andromache isn’t disturbed, when talking to him. They decide to cause as little damage as possible, but some things just can’t be helped. So Quynh is tasked to take the roof, while Yussuf and Nicolo take care of the entrance.</p><p> </p><p>At first, it goes quite well. They arrive in the deep dark and find the center of the camp quickly. The obvious display of wealth is a good guide for that. Andromache and Quynh climb the wall easily, the complex structure of the local architecture paves their path. Yussuf and Nicolo stay on the ground and watch the silent camp, avoiding the gaze of the few guards by melting into the shadows of the door.</p><p> </p><p>That is, until the screaming starts. Seems, Andromache is quite insistent. Unfortunately, soon her efforts start to wake the whole camp. At first, only a few men come looking, without trying to enter the house, but soon, there is quite a crowd of unsettled, unsure, but potentially violent bandits.</p><p> </p><p>For some time, well-placed arrows from above remind them, it was unwise to tempt their fate, but soon, the pure pressure of their peers overwhelmed this hint of self-preservation.</p><p> </p><p>With an uproar they storm forward toward the entrance of the delicate wooden house, where Nicolo and Yussuf wait, unaware or uncaring of the few, who fall, nailed to the ground by Quynh’s arrows. The assault stops dead, when the two fighters leave the shadows, their swords glinting dangerously in the shifting light of the few torches and lamps present. But only for a moment, then they are surrounded by the screaming, faceless mob, who tries to get passed them, around them, over them, if need be.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf and Nicolo though, work together like two halves of a perfect whole. Even trying to keep it strictly non-lethal, they are a work of art. Their swords dance in the darkness, distributing jabs, slaps, pommel blows, seldomly cuts. There are only so many men who can attack at once without impeding each other, so the real enemy here is not the bandits. It is exhaustion. The moment, they lose their focus, sag, just a little, the mob will get them, and then, Andromache would be exposed.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, she can take care of herself, but she can’t do the job, she is supposed to, then. So they fight like devils, their monstrosity covered by the sheet of the night. Again, and again, stab, jab, hit, cut. Turn around and save your partner a wound, use the momentum and lunge forward to beat another fighter. A nightmarish and tiring ordeal, all in all.</p><p> </p><p>As fast, as the attack commenced, it ceases again, all but the fainted disappearing into the darkness. One can vaguely discern faces, just beyond the row of the surrounding houses, waiting out the uneasy truce achieved, waiting for another chance, waiting for any weakness.</p><p> </p><p>After a short – and one-sided – conversation, Yussuf takes the center of the circle of remaining bodies and Nicolo goes around and checks their life signs. Most wake to the touch and lurch away, scared by the lurking shadow with the curved sword. Nicolo moves the few who didn’t aside, so they won’t be trampled in case of another attack. For now, he can’t do much for them, aside from preventing further damage.</p><p> </p><p>When Nicolo returns to Yussuf’s side, they can already see a second wave forming, this one much better organized with more actual weapons, even an archer placed in the back, though Quynh will give him short shrift. But before this attack can happen, the door behind them opens, and Andromache steps out, a lantern in her hand, followed by a very, very intimidated brute. He announces something, Nicolo does not quite understand, but it probably follows the lines of “I am terribly sorry and see the error of my ways, so now, we do it like that…” The pleased smile in the corner of Andromache’s mouth is witness to that.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, this does not prevent her from turning to him, one last time, and whispering something into his ear, that makes him shrink even more.  After that, they are ready to leave under the tensed gaze of the bandits around them. But at least, this time, they didn’t leave another massacre in effort to protect the innocent.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am searching for interesting historical events or conflict between 1407 and 1570, anywhere in Eurasia. Still figuring out, what I want to visit, while the story evolves. If you have something specific in mind, feel free to leave me a comment. I might or might not use it, but it is certainly appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Beside the fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolo tries to come clean</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am still ahead, yay, but barely. Research takes time, so I haven't written nearly enough, today... I hope, I soon find a new well of inspiration... <br/>Until then, enjoy this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After setting the bandits on the right path, they leave the temple. They might not have overstayed their welcome but are not comfortable with putting their hosts at unease like that. Besides, Quynh insists, they can be more useful elsewhere, now, that the temple is safe.</p><p> </p><p>It is an ambiguous pleasure to be on the road again. The constant movement, they are used to by now, soothes the mind, it is true. And the welcome tiredness of a day walking cannot be replaced by simple training.</p><p> </p><p>But Nicolo feels, he missed a chance. He could have explained so much more to Yussuf. And to Andromache and Quynh too. The little sliver of information that slipped from his mind, lifted a great deal of weight from his shoulders. It feels so much better to have someone knowing. Someone, able to catch him, when he falls, understanding, what he went through.</p><p> </p><p>If only he wouldn’t feel so guilty for it. It seems, sharing all his past will lift one burden, just to place another. They have been so friendly, so understanding, so welcoming on his behalf. Will they continue, once they know the full extent of his past sins? And is it right to expect it from them? Even hope for it?</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is torn, more than ever, to confess, if he gets another chance. He can’t place it on them, but neither can he live a lie… It would be worse than any of his past crimes, because it’s lying to friends. People, who truly care about him.</p><p> </p><p>He can see it, in the way, Andromache drills him, when they train, putting more effort into basic training, than ever since their first months of training, so he can relax, before they spar. The way, Quynh chatters about everything really, explaining, what he sees, informing him of history and tale, only to magic a smile onto his face, a sight, so rare these days.</p><p> </p><p>Especially the way, Yussuf guards his every step, as if he could scare his past encounters away, retroactively. If only he knew, it was Nicolo, who invited them.</p><p> </p><p>This misunderstanding is it, that tips the scales in the end. On another silent evening, in a place, safe enough to light a fire, shielded from sight by monumental trees, he cleans up some space beside the fire and finds himself a good stick.</p><p> </p><p>They look questioning, yet let him be, when he writes, in big letters, recognizable in the glow of the flames. He has thought about what to write for a long time. And the first ideas were truly rubbish. “Stop being so careful around me, I am not made of china.” But he is, they have seen him breaking. “I am not worth it.” That one would insult their decisions and he really won't do that, despite, what he thinks. “Leave me alone.” That is stupid... Even he knows, he doesn't want that. In the end, he settles for: “I am not, what you think of me.”</p><p> </p><p>It leaves them baffled enough to shut them up for the whole minute, he needs to spell it out, and then some. Then, suddenly, they all shout at him, each in his or her own cadence of disbelief. Once more, he tries to write out patiently, what he has done, before he met them. But a simple summary of his wrong-doings does not help his case at all. They simply don't believe him or dismiss all of it as venial sins.</p><p> </p><p>He will need to give them examples. He will need to make them understand, no matter, how much it hurts to think back, to conjure the images of the past.</p><p><br/>-----</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When you go pickpocketing, you do not choose the rich looking men. Those are dangerous. They have guards, they have influence. If they notice, you will be hunted through the whole city, and if you get caught, You loose your hand or your head. You chose the semi-wealthy. The journeymen, the artisan assistants, the housewives with their self-righteous stance, the sailors, their pockets full of pay.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Everyone knows that. Nicolo knows that. Guiseppe knows that.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It takes patience to live that way. To steal just enough from just the right people to not get caught. Nicolo is patient. Guiseppe isn't.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Guiseppe dreams of stealing from the rich, of lifting golden rings, and pearly bracelets and heavy purses of shining velvet.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And one day, he stops dreaming. Nicolo helplessly watches him closing on a nobleman. Watches him using his fast fingers, his nimble body. Bites his hand in vain hope, it might go well. It doesn't. The watch is right there, pursuing the small thief, as soon as the noble cries out.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Guiseppe runs, fast, smart... he knows his way around. Maybe he will succeed, maybe he will get away. Nicolo hopes and prays. But he does not lift a finger, does not make a single noise. He does not even try to distract the guards. Just watches in horror, as both his fellow thief and the guards disappear into the labyrinth of narrow streets.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>----</em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The next time, Nicolo saw Guiseppe, was on the block. It was the last time. He wasn't sentenced to death, but the loss of a hand killed him anyways, no matter the hot tar, they put on the stump.</p><p> </p><p>Hot tears burn in Nicolo's eyes and he hickups once, before he can constrain it. He should have done something. He should have... been killed too...</p><p> </p><p>It is a thought, he never dared think before. He would have been killed. As was everyone he knew back then. They died on the block or from hunger, from cold or illness. They were killed by careless lovers or beaten up on the streets.</p><p> </p><p>He sits down and stares into the flames, to preoccupied with the past to register any reaction of the others, until Quynh carefully puts a blanket around his shoulders, whispering into is ears: “I know, this is hard on you. But we are listening. You will be safe.”</p><p> </p><p>This is not what he expected, not what he wants. How can they not understand? Does he really need to dig so much deeper into shame and anger and desparation, before they finally get it? He is not ready to go that far, but this leaves him no choice.</p><p> </p><p>With a shrug he rids himself of the blanket, cleans the ground for more, ready to expose... Andromache stops him, right there, with a single word. “Enough.”</p><p> </p><p>With that tone in her voice, he can't deny her. He just turns, caught by her look, as she rises, steps next to him and takes his arm, guides him away from the fire, away from the others, sits him down, somewhere in the dark, where they can see the stars, hear the animal sounds of the night.</p><p> </p><p>For a long time, they remain silent. Andromache takes his hand and squeezes softly. “You need to stop blaming yourself for all the bad in the world. We all have done things we aren't proud of. Everyone does. We do not care. Each of us has his own ax to grind.”</p><p> </p><p>For a small moment, with a small smile his gaze shifts to her labrys. She snorts and shoves him slightly. “Very funny.” Then, her serious voice returns, as she hugs him, like the little brother, he feels he is, and tells him, very firmly. “Stop torturing yourself over the things you have done. Tell us about the things, that broke you. And how we can mend them.”</p><p> </p><p>He stares in utter disbelief. This isn't Quynh or Yussuf. This is Andromache. She eventually gets back into her usual role, when she ends: “Or don't tell us at all. We won't hold it against you.”</p><p> </p><p>A small slap on the back and cuddling time is over. Andromache never lingers on emotion. But it feels good to catch a glimpse on hers from time to time.</p><p> </p><p>So, when they return to the fire, Nicolo is more at ease than he expected and sits down just beside Yussuf, so close, their legs are touching. The surprises, though, are not over yet, as Andromache starts humming a melody of a heroic song, so old, she didn't even bother to teach the language to Nicolo, so when she starts to sing, he needs Yussuf to translate for him. It is beautiful, and deep within, he hums along.</p><p> </p><p>After her, Yussuf sings an Arabic love song, watching Nicolo closely. Nicolo knows exactly why, for he cannot help but smile and blush with embarrassment, for his grasp of <em>this</em> language is quite sufficient. Both Quynh and Andromache laugh about it until the whole camp is dosed with a wave of comfort and well-being.</p><p> </p><p>Everything is fine, until he falls asleep. It is his fault, really. He let his guard down. He let memories come back and haunt him...</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up in the dead of the night, and for a moment, all is silent and the fear of going mad is back. The fear, that he will find himself alone, in a monk's cell, alone, alone, all alone. Choked by stone walls, imprisoned, forgotten. He even starts to acknowledge the smell, that in his mind will forever be linked with this particular personal hell, the smell of slightly damp stone, stale frankincense smoke and bad apples.</p><p> </p><p>Then his senses flood back, he hears familiar breathing, smells familiar scents. He is safe. They are there. He is with the only family he ever had, he ever cared for, he ever needed. And for the first time in ages, he just turns around, nuzzles his face against Yussuf's shoulder and goes back to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The morning is clear and warm and friendly, but Nicolo is kind of grumpy, though he is not sure, why he can't get along with himself today. Everything is fine. More than fine. He slept better than he has ever in this country, really only Quynh is fond of, because it is damp, unpleasantly hot, war-stricken and miserable. Even the breakfast is nice, some mush made from rice, seasoned with lokal spices.</p><p> </p><p>But maybe just that is the problem. Nicolo is so used to being slightly distressed, he doesn't trust good anymore. Maybe, because he still thinks, he doesn't deserve it, maybe, because it went bad one time to often, when he was just ready to finally relax.</p><p> </p><p>So there he is, waiting for the worst, while the others just enjoy themselves. And isn't it a sad thing, being right? Still, he envies the easy transition of from relaxed to battle-ready his fellow immortals are capable of, just as things go bad.</p><p> </p><p>One moment, they are just sitting, talking, eating, the next, when they hear the horses, there weapons are right, where they belong: in their hands.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolo is left behind. Where are the other immortals?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I need to change the modus of posting, I noticed. The chapters are almost double what they used to be, but since I can only write about 1000 words a day usually, I will need to change posting to every two days. Sorry about that, but I hope, the coherence of the chapters will make up to that.</p><p>By the way, this is now officially the longest stuff I have written since my teenage years. And then, I had some very pressuring and interested readers and a lot of time at hand... 25 years back. <br/>So yeah, I appreciate all your comments, they really help me keep going.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time, when Nicolo wakes up, he <em>is </em>alone. But there is no mistaking <em>this</em> for a monk's cell. He lies in the center of a puddle of mud in a field of mud. His specific puddle is a little more reddish than most of the others. The only exceptions are housing the carcasses of two dead horses, stripped of all easily removable flesh. One of the eye sockets still encases one of Quynh's easily identifiable arrows.</p><p> </p><p>No living soul is around and as far as he can see, neither are human bodies. Slowly he removes himself from the ground and checks his body, which is fine, and his clothing, which is not. The shirt alone is torn and bloodied in several places. It is not a good sight, but it helps him remember, helps him put the jigsaw puzzle of his fractured battle trance memory together.</p><p> </p><p>There were men, on horses. Lots of them. And they didn't even bother fighting, they just accelerated and tried to trample the immortals down. He caught a glimpse of Quynh shooting in fast frequency, Yussuf dodging... Then... pain... and blackout. A horse's hoof must have hit his head and knocked him out, and badly so, if everyone is gone. He isn't sure, if he was just unlucky or still too bad at fighting, but the others must have survived... Or they would lie here with him.</p><p> </p><p>The question is: why didn't they come back for him?</p><p> </p><p>While he ponders over it, he assesses his situation. There is nothing useful left here. His provisions, his spare clothes, his sword, all gone. He swears like a Genovese sailor and checks further to find something, anything.</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing, the men were thorough. There is but one good think about all of this: It will be very easy to follow. A large group of horses leaves a very distinguishable trail. And with nothing else to do, this is, what Nicolo decides.</p><p> </p><p>If the other immortals are prisoners, they will be there. And if not, if they have abandoned him, at least, his sword will be. His undeserved heirloom. He tries to convince himself, that he can do it, if he only gets back that one thing, trying to ignore the burn, that hits him, every time, he even grazes the thought of being alone again.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“<em>Look, little bird, this is the perfect place for you.” Signore Airoldi wears his most perfect smile today. His hands stroke over Nicolo’s arms. “All privacy for us… and a place, where you can practice your writing undisturbed.” He willfully ignores Nicolo’s unease.</em></p><p> </p><p><em>He does want to see the unease, that flickers of his pet’s face at the sight of thick walls… Of a bar </em>outside<em> of the door, of thick locks and small windows. “The monks will provide you with food and no one will bother you.”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Nicolo nears panic but keeps a straight face. The condottiere has no patience for refusal. He nods and lets himself get swept with Signore Airoldi’s moods. He sinks into the kisses and tries hard to forget, where he is and where he will stay from now on.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The visceral fear can be subdued, but it cannot be removed. Once the condottiere leaves, Nicolo is a shivering wreck, huddled on the simple bed, while the walls close in on him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Only the faint sound of song from the nearby church keeps him alive. “Kyrie eleison” indeed.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo hums the chant under his breath, for it gives him comfort, without slowing him down. His steps fall into an easy rhythm with the words. It will be a long way, but he is aware, a group is usually slower than a single person, even on horseback. And if they have prisoners, especially those prisoners, it will slow them even more.</p><p> </p><p>While walking steadily, he builds plan after plan, what to do, once he can see the troupe, but in the end, it comes all up to the same conclusion: with his lack of equipment he will have to improvise.</p><p> </p><p>Good thing, a life as pickpocket and streetwise little bastard has taught him, what there is to know about stealth.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Nicolo finds the troupe, or more like little army, at the edge of the night. They have made camp on some abandoned fields. It is hard to miss them, with all the fires, they built. The good thing about it is, he can see quite a lot of the camp by just climbing a tree. He can see the structures, they built, the corrals with the horses, the bound figures in the center of the camp, right beside the commander’s tent.</p><p> </p><p>The bad thing is, there are not many shadows left to hide in. He will have to move fast, he will have to fight hard and he will have to exceed everything he ever did before. Nothing less than perfection will do. And he doubts, he can do that. He has not even the freedom to die, or he will come back, and they will know. They cannot, must not know, what he is… what the others are.</p><p> </p><p>He feels terribly unprepared. Unfortunately, there is no time to change that. So… Priorities. When the camp goes to sleep, the guards aside, he needs to sneak in. Some clothing first, if possible, to look less suspicious than his current torn and bloodied outfit will allow. A cap or hat to cover his hair would help as well. Next will be weapons. And then… straight for the prisoners, preferably without alarming the residents.</p><p> </p><p>The first part isn’t easily done. A camp on the move doesn’t exactly have clothing lying around and killing or knocking out a guard is too risky. Weapons on the other hand are plenty. They are not so familiar to him as his well-used sword, but Andromache has trained him well. Spear or sword, halberd or knife, he has fought with either and done well.</p><p> </p><p>He skirts around the edges of the camp, where the fires are small and sparse and steals as many swords as he can carry without making noise, which is three, one in each hand, one strapped to his back. They are curved like Yussufs, but slimmer. They will work.</p><p> </p><p>Now, on to the prisoners. Nicolo glides from shadow to shadow, stays at the backside of tents. It helps, that the guards aren’t as silent as him. He gets pretty far, close to the open space near the commander’s tent, when suddenly something bursts out of the tent beside him. It is big, it is dark, and for a moment, it looks like a monster conjured out of thin air.</p><p> </p><p>He brings his swords up, but the beast is smart and does not jump right into them. Instead it circles Nicolo for a few seconds, before halting and revealing itself as a guard dog with it’s deep, sharp barking and growling noises.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo swears silently and quickly glances around. He can hear the guards approaching, people moving around him. He is royally fucked and all he can do is act fast now, run, do his best to free the others. He cannot fight a whole camp.</p><p> </p><p>He jumps past the dog, hitting it with one of the swords he is carrying. It produces a high whining noise and limps out of the way.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo isn’t sure, it won’t follow, but has no time to finish it off. He just hopes, he hurt it enough to stifle its hunger for a fight. He falls into a fast pace, aiming for the center of the camp, the place where the prisoners are kept. One or two inhabitants of tents are up, when he passes them and put up a fight, but neither of them is prepared for Nicolo’s fervor. He easily disarms them and passes by, suppressing his rising fear as good as possible.</p><p> </p><p>Now, there are noises all around him, the camp is waking, soon he will be surrounded. With a last rush, he arrives at the place, where the prisoners were, looks around and groans.</p><p> </p><p>They are gone.</p><p> </p><p>Gasping for air he looks around, seeking for them in the shadows… Has someone taken them away? Has his misfortune with the dog sealed their fate? Close to panic he turns one more time, taking in all the light that is lit around him. New logs added to fires, torches burning, lanterns. The camp is waking up, and he is right in its center, when the commander steps out, his sword already in hand, parts of his armor strapped to his body, looking far from completely dressed. Their eyes meet, and the man cries out an alarm.</p><p> </p><p>As if that would change anything now. He can hear other dogs barking, men running, horses neighing. And while he is watching, a dark figure jumps out of the shadows…</p><p> </p><p>The cry ends in an unhealthy gurgling sound. For a wink of an eye, he can see the small woman, a dripping knife in her hand, waving at him. Quynh! “Are you coming?”, she asks, in the most conversational tone, he can imagine and walks into the tent.</p><p> </p><p>He follows her immediately, too dumbstruck to give any comment. The inside is dimly lit with oil lamps. Two more shadows, Andromache and Yussuf efficiently search its contents, discarding everything unneeded on the ground. They soon find, what they were searching for. Their weapons, armor, additional clothing. What was lost is replaced with the commander’s belongings. It’s so fast, he can barely believe it. Or couldn’t, if he didn’t know them so well.</p><p> </p><p>Clothing is unceremoniously dumped into his arms and Quynh helps him don the unfamiliar outfit. His sword is handed to him, and as he puts the halter around his mid, his hand softly glides over its pommel in silent welcome. It is so much better than the three rejects, now clattered on the ground.</p><p> </p><p>When all of them are ready, Quynh taking longest, because they find their quiver last, Andromache cuts through the fabric at the back of the tent and steps through.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy now, isn’t it? They – he – just need to follow her lead.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, it is not. Their path is full of people, eager to get themselves killed. Every step is a fight and only the unsteadiness of flickering flames prevents them from being shot, several times. They take a good count of wounds on their way out of the camp anyways. For the older immortals it is fine, if they can give harder than they get.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo… just moves with the flow. The reminder, he and his fellow fighters are probably the most dangerous thing here in the darkness, does not soothe him, but adds to the terror of the ordeal. He knows, it is him or them. He knows, they decided to trample him down without second thought and left his body to rot. He knows, they won’t hesitate one second, if they got the chance.</p><p> </p><p>He still can’t bring himself to hate. Or kill unscrupulously, mindlessly. He won’t let himself lose this much of his humanity. He has no idea, how they others cope with things like this. The must, somehow, as they are no deadhearted butchers, after all. Yet, he cannot figure out, how they do it so easily.</p><p> </p><p>So, he just goes along, until it is suddenly over. No more men in front of them, only darkness. They leave behind all the screaming panic, all the alarms, all the terror and just… disappear into the night. And after an hour or two of walking, they can be sure, no one will find them.</p><p> </p><p>With the chaos, the left behind and the night covering their tracks, and the soft rain, that started, they will be safe.</p><p> </p><p>So, Andromache sits down by a tree, opening one of her bags and handing out food for each of them, while Quynh grabs Nicolo’s hands, now, that they are no longer occupied, and gives him a kiss to the cheek. “You came for us… that was sweet.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo just shrugs. There is nothing, he can explain, right now, not his fears, not his hopes.</p><p> </p><p>He can feel Yussuf step behind him, firmly massaging his shoulders, before pulling him back, against his body, and smiles. It feels so good, so familiar. It was just one day, yet, he missed this warmth, as if it had been a century. They sit together, when they eat, and coil into each other, when they sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Never alone again. It’s a silent promise, so unusual for the normally very vocal Yussuf, but it’s what Nicolo needs. No words, however honed, could express it as much as this simple thing. “I love you, and I won’t leave you behind.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Departure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An unfortunate series of events makes Nicolo feel insufficient. With unpredictable results.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is kind of a breaking point. I am now less than one chapter ahead (because this is so long) and surprised by myself, how it turned out. The good news is, I have ideas hanging around for at least the next chapter, so I will have the next chapter ready in no time, I hope.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the obvious hint, that the immortals are not welcome in Vietnam anymore, they decide, their work is done here. The good, they can do is too restricted, now, that the Chinese invaders obviously caught up with their existence and decided to do something about it.</p><p> </p><p>So, they throw a coin and head west again. There isn’t much East to go, anyways, and most of the North is occupied by the very empire that tried to seize them. The countries, they are about to pass are similar to the one they left. Hot and damp little kingdoms in full realization (or rather delusion) about their own importance. Beautiful, monumental temples, small picturesque villages, cultures rubbing shoulders, each proud and unique, yet reaching sometimes mere miles, before touching the next, quite different one. Quynh tells them, in the south, there is even more of them, Khmer, Laotians, Malay, but it’s a bit of a dead end.</p><p> </p><p>So they skip it and head for India, a huge or rather gigantic puzzle of differing political situations, and somewhere southwest a Muslim sultanate, where they can find ships headed for Constantinople. Back to places, where all of them understand the language. It is not a good place to go, though, they realize, while already halfway there. The borders around here, are not just between states. They are between religions, civilization and barbarism, humans and beasts. The sides just can’t agree which side is which. There is the constant threat of another war. It is only a matter of time.</p><p> </p><p>And strangers meet only distrust, or worse, enmity. Yussuf blends slightly in, there are a lot of Arabs here, and though he isn’t one of them, he can pretend it. That makes him the perfect negotiator for any of their trades, if it is for food, housing or work.</p><p> </p><p>The women are mostly overlooked, they are strangers, yes, but severely underestimated ones. That leaves Nicolo, who gets a lot more attention than he ever wanted to. There are harmless encounters. Kids, begging to touch his hair, because of its strangely light color. Women, smiling at him from behind veils or curtains. Traders, asking in a strange mishmash of so many languages, where he is from.</p><p> </p><p>And there are alarming ones. The cold, calculating looks at his back, measuring his value and his intentions. The half-drawn weapons, when he enters an inn. The hushed voices, just outside of his immediate surrounding, whispering words, ranging from slurs to outright threats.</p><p> </p><p>Even in Yussuf’s arms, he sleeps with a hand at the sword and one eye open.</p><p> </p><p>The others don’t look concerned, though. Maybe they are so sure of themselves, they don’t think, anything will happen. Maybe he is just imagining things. Maybe everything will turn out right. He is still so young. He has only seen the worst in people. Maybe he is to distrustful.</p><p> </p><p>The moment, he loses sight of the immortals, he knows, he is not. The worst of humanity comes always back to him. For him. A knife is pressed against him, so he may not scream and alert his companions. The two huge grunts cornering him obviously don’t know, he can’t. But they do know, he is a fighter and prevent any of his movements, pressing his arms against him, and then, once Quynh wanders away towards the spice market stalls, up his back, until his shoulders scream in pain.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo curses himself for getting distracted, for being caught so easily, despite the distinct warning of his instincts. When they try to pull him away from the market, into the labyrinth of small alleys, surrounding the open space, he puts up a real fight, kicking and shoving.</p><p> </p><p>It does him no good. The pain in his shoulders drives him into tears, and a kick to the leg shatters his lower leg bones. His last thought, before the pain gets unbearable and he sinks into unconsciousness, because of a fist in his stomach and an elbow at his temple, is the hope, that they didn’t notice.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>There is a metal band around his neck, so tight, it restricts the breathing. Two smaller metal rings bind his hands behind his back, the fingers slightly numb. The floor, he is lying on is covered with thick, rich colored carpets, but they are not for his comfort as a kick to the ribs easily reminds him.</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly he opens his eyes, too late to avoid another kick. Defiantly he coils into himself and is pulled into sitting position by rough hands. Nicolo takes a few seconds to understand his situation.</p><p> </p><p>He is in a dimly lit, but extravagantly furnished and decorated room. At either side of him, are at least two men of the same size and profession as the ones abducting him, now decorated with some exquisite clothing and weapons. A fifth, he assumes, though he cannot see him, holds him upright and presses a knee against his back to keep him subdued.</p><p> </p><p>Before him, an even more expensively clothed man with a face that wears Indian and Arabian features combined lounges on a heap of pillows, drinking tea and smoking some herbs, possibly hashish. After inhaling deeply, he shifts his own attention to Nicolo and asks in passable, though unfamiliar dialect of Arabic: “Who are you? What do you want from the merchant and his wives? Are they accomplices or mere victims to your agenda?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo remains necessarily silent, keeps his face carefully calm.</p><p> </p><p>The man rises and comments to his servants around Nicolo in disappointed tone: “One would really think that whoever sent a spy here, would at least be intelligent enough to make sure, he speaks the language, no?”</p><p> </p><p>Do not smirk, Nicolo, this is the worst moment to…</p><p> </p><p>When he is back in the focus of attention, his face is as cool and unfazed as ever. He is bombarded with a continuing onslaught of questions in different languages. Most of which he at least recognizes, although he does not speak all of them yet. Persian, Russian, Venetian even, some Turk dialects.</p><p> </p><p>The man is well educated, Nicolo gives him that. And intelligent too, for he soon realizes, this leads nowhere, not even the flicker of recognition can be read from Nicolo’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“So, we don’t want to talk, do we?”, the man mocks, in Arabic again. Nicolo shrugs, slightly. The vocabulary on his side is, of course, limited. He should have really taken his time to learn some Arabic lettering. Latin won’t help here, even if he had his hands free to write.</p><p> </p><p>“Well… we will make you talk, have no fear…”, someone behind him whispers and makes Nicolo swallow around the lump, that suddenly appeared in his throat. Shit.</p><p><br/>
------</p><p> </p><p>A few hours of torture, of bursting into tears, dry heaving, once his stomach is empty anyways, of shaking and spasms, the men treating him, have established three facts. One: Nicolo won’t talk. Nothing survivable can even force a scream out of him, even less words. Second: he heals at an inhumanly rate, no matter how much he tried to hide it. And third: he isn’t capable to resist the torture, he seems smaller, younger, weaker than any of them. But he does not break.</p><p> </p><p>That surprises himself the most. By now, he should be a sobbing wreckage, unable to even lift his head. Instead, hope flares up in his heart, whenever the pain ceases. They will come for him. He needs to hold on, and then, they will come for him. There is no doubt to that. They only need to find them.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, the longer it goes on, the harder it is to remember it. The easier it is to fall prey to other thoughts. That they think, he left on purpose. That they may not find him. That they will be to late. But he is still far from giving up, when the grunts finally realize, there is no point in going on.</p><p> </p><p>When he is thrown into a cell, somewhere underground, by the looks of it, he has enough of himself left to collect the pieces and put them back together, though it takes time, to find the strength to meditate like the monk in Vietnam taught him.</p><p> </p><p>Calm. Peace. Slow, steady breathing. One by one disregarding the noises, sounds, smells around him. One by one erasing the remnants of torture from his mind.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>“What a strangely beautiful creature you are…” The all too familiar tone in the voice scares him more than the continued threat of torture could. And here, there is a certain edge to it, that makes it even more upsetting. The mere knowledge, that he cannot, will not die, will not bear scars. That his body will not shatter nor yield.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think, the merchant misses his plaything already?” Nicolo cannot hide his flinching. He isn’t even sure, why this hits home. Is it too close to the truth? That he is far from useful for the other immortals? Or does he simply miss Yussuf too much and hates to hear their relationship put like that? Or, worst of all, has he never left behind the boy, he swore not to be anymore?</p><p> </p><p>The rich man, a courtier of the sultan himself, he has learned, laughs in childish happiness. “How could I ever assume, you were a spy, when, so clearly, you are made for a completely different profession? I only ask myself, how a lowly merchant could acquire such a treasure as you.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo wished, he could at least fold his arms to show his discontent, but from the start, neither the band around his neck, nor the handcuffs have ever been released for more than the time to redress him, always heavily guarded. It has been two days by now, no sign of rescue emerging, no chance to free himself either. His hands are fully numb now, but with his healing abilities, nobody sees a point in helping with this.</p><p> </p><p>To fade out the courtier’s further elaborations, he counts the advantages of this situation in his head. One… it may be awkward to be fed by someone by hand but resisting the urge to bite has left his hunger satisfied. Two. The courtier obviously underestimates him. Neither has insisted on chaining Nicolo’s feet, nor has he established a constant guard. Nicolo is carefully optimistic, that, given enough time, he can break his hand and heal to get rid of the handcuffs, no matter how tight they are. Three… He hasn’t tried something… yet. And if he does, Nicolo has worked out quite a few unpleasant surprises. And four… Time is working in his favor. The longer he stays meek, the sloppier the guard’s attention. And the more likely for the others to find him. True, the courtier might get impatient and rush his advances, but there is nothing, Nicolo can’t take, nothing he hasn’t done before. He is long beyond the believe, that Muslims are crueler and more inventive than Christian men.</p><p> </p><p>And tonight… tonight will be a good time to start his escape.</p><p> </p><p>Arriving at this thought, he comes back to reality, realizing, something is amiss. The courtier has risen from his comfortable seat and looks around panicky, alarmed by strange shrieking noises, followed by battle cries.</p><p> </p><p>They are here.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo tries to rise from his position, which proves complicated with the way, his hands are chained to each other, and altogether fruitless, when the Courtier crashes into him and pins him to the ground, crying out, in his strange version of Arabic: “You will tell him, I treated you well!”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo smirks at the sudden and certainly belated realization that Yussuf is not a lowly merchant and Andromache and Quynh are not his exotic harem and knees the courtier in the groin to get him of himself. He would scream in his face, what he thinks of his “good treatment” if he could. Instead, he rolls away, starting another attempt to get to his feet and do at least something useful.</p><p> </p><p>It’s too late, though, a door is opened and Andromache steps through. “He, little one. Need a hand?”</p><p> </p><p>Snorting, he turns around, showing her, he still has two… if she could please lend one of hers to free them. She is happy to indulge him and breaks the locks, that keep his hands chained with a guard’s knife. With a snarl, he jumps at the courtier and closes those hands around his meaty throat, starting to bash the back of his head to the all too soft ground again and again, necessarily wordlessly, meaningful none the less.</p><p> </p><p>He only stops, because, when the numbness in his fingers is replaced by burning needles, he cannot resist Andromache’s attempts to pull him away anymore. With a quick shove, he is placed on one of the pillows, remaining there under Andromache’s warning stare.</p><p> </p><p>“Does he know?”, she asks using one of the more obscure languages, the immortals taught them. His nod seals the courtier’s fate, as she casually breaks his neck, before searching him for the keys to get rid of Nicolo’s collar.</p><p> </p><p>Only then, Yussuf and Quynh join them, looking surprised by the presented situation. Nicolo, sitting on a pillow, his hands carefully folded in his lap to ease the agony that rages in them, not looking disheveled or unwell. Andromache, still glaring at the world around her as if it’s everybody’s fault to inconvenience her.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>After the death of the courtier, they vote for a rather hasty departure, not to the coastline as planned, but north and east, to leave the Sultanate as soon as possible. The only pause to exchange some horses for coin, then go on, until the beasts are close to exhaustion, only to sell them off again at less coin.</p><p> </p><p>It takes them one and a half days without sleep and more than a few scraps to eat on the run to reach the borders and head back into Hindu territory. Only then Andromache allows them to take a rest.</p><p> </p><p>All this time Yussuf has been exceptionally silent. It can’t have been more than ten words he has uttered. At first, Nicolo attributes it to the strain of the journey, but even, when they can finally rest, he does not reach out. He waits for Nicolo to go asleep, so no questions are asked, and when Nicolo finally does, or pretends to do so, he places his own bedroll on the other side of the fire.</p><p> </p><p>The next day, moving further away from the Sultanate, now clearly north, towards the silk road, he stays at Quyhn’s side, talking to her quietly, so Nicolo never quite catches, what this is about. This evening, he distances himself even more clearly from Nicolo.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo’s heart burns. What is this? What has he done? He does not understand. He would call Yussuf out, make him explain, but he is quite aware, he is ill-equipped for that. Yussuf would get angry and lack all the patience to wait for Nicolo’s clumsily written answers. He would shout at him and head off to bash some poor shrubbery, and nothing would change.</p><p> </p><p>All he can do, is wait, until Yussuf figures it out by himself, no matter, how long it takes. No matter how badly it hurts. No matter how much he would need his presence now, how he misses his warmth and tenderness. He is reduced to pining and longing.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>It takes another day for Andromache to get fed up with the whole charade. When they all sit down for their evening meal, still uncharacteristically moody, she has had enough. “Nicolo, go, fetch some water!”, she commands and hands him the water skins which are, how convenient, empty.</p><p> </p><p>He is too smart to argue and heads off and takes his sweet time with that. He is still back to soon, to miss the shouting, staying standing afar and listening, unwillingly.</p><p> </p><p>“He just sat there, Andromache. He let it happen! He didn’t even stand up for himself. You did!”</p><p> </p><p>This must have been going on quite a while, because Andromache’s response is just as loud. “You weren’t there! You didn’t see!”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha!” Nicolo imagines, how, with this exclamation, Yussuf would raise his hand as if praying down the authority of god. “He had two days. You would get rid of cuffs in minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>Andromache scoffs. “It’s no easy task, breaking your own bones. You know that. Not the first few times, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>The argument goes on, but Nicolo doesn’t listen anymore. Burdened by a weight, thousand times that of the water skins he returns to the river, where he filled the skins, falls to his knees by the water and stays. Suddenly, there is a ring round his neck, tighter than a collar could ever be, choking him. His sobs do not disturb the water, until his hands splash into it in silent anger.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy to be angry. Easier even to blame Yussuf. How can he think that? How can he believe, Nicolo isn’t faithful? Throws himself into the first pair of open arms?</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo isn’t about easy. He is complicated. He is responsible. It is his fault. And his fault alone. He let himself get captured. He was inattentive. And he waited, instead of doing something. Yussuf might have misread the situation, but the core of it is true. He let it happen.</p><p> </p><p>He continues to burden the immortals, something, they cannot afford. Of course, in time, they would forgive him. But this is not, what he wants. He will be no more burden. He needs to make his own living, his own fate. Only then, he can be their equal.</p><p> </p><p>Carefully he prepares, what is necessary. He cleans the sand of the riverbank from his footsteps, writes in big, well-rounded letters: “I am sorry”, and places all but one waterskin close by, so they will find them.</p><p> </p><p>Then he leaves, avoiding producing a trail by crossing the river several times and using stony areas, just like Quynh taught him.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't be too worried, because you know: "It's destiny." ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Journeys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolo finds his own ways.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A chapter without anyone. And a short one. Weekends are bad for writing, when the kids keep me occupied. I hope you enjoy it anyway, the next update is in preparation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hard fending for himself, but Nicolo manages. He has done it before and learned so much since then. All those useful traits. Efficient hunting. Weapon mastery. Languages. He may not speak them, but understanding is just as essential. He learns to do it. Works as a mercenary, gets acquainted with the sign languages long distance traders use, the one language, he finally can get fluent at. He conceals himself, his hair, his skin, his heritage.</p><p> </p><p>It’s gets easier each day to pose as whoever is needed, when you don’t have to speak. He takes a liking to a thing called cheche, as it allows him to hide all revealing features at once.</p><p> </p><p>And he keeps travelling. At first, it’s because he does not want to be found. But the longer his exile goes on, the less important this gets. The suspicion of mortals is certainly more troubling. So, he never stays for more than a few months, never works for the same merchant more than a few times, takes care, not to be killed, or to vanish, when it happens.</p><p> </p><p>He is called “Halim” now. The patient one. It fits him, and he uses it, when needed. Arabic signs evade him long, but proofing his name, he finally masters them, too. It is months… years…</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes he thinks of the other immortals. Without the dreams to guide them, they will not find him. By now, they will have stopped looking, and it’s fine. If destiny, kismet, he thinks now, wills it, they will meet again. Until then, he resembles the scared boy he left behind less and less. His way with weapons, his movements, his resilience, his very way of life change. Only two things remain. Eternally. Two eyes of indescribable color, changing from green to grey to blue and back, and silence.</p><p> </p><p>There is a third, less comfortable constant. His patience and silence are often misread as weakness. Sometimes, a small lesson is enough to clear up this misconception. Sometimes, only killing suffices.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>Mahmoud is an amiable man. Nicolo likes him and shies away from the thought, he will have to leave him soon. But he has gotten sloppy, he already stayed to long. Starting as a simple caravan guard, over the last three years, he has worked his way up to second in command. He has been invited to Mahmoud’s home, was trusted with guarding the life of his family more than once.</p><p> </p><p>It will hurt to leave that trust behind, however necessary it is.</p><p> </p><p>But there is one last duty to fulfill: Accompanying Mahmoud’s favorite daughter and son in law on their hajj, visiting not only Mecca but also Jerusalem. Both are, in their own way, complicated designations. Mecca is of course difficult, for if he gets exposed as who he is, people will definitely try to kill him and there is no way of telling, how far this can go.</p><p> </p><p>Jerusalem though… The one thing, Nicolo has never lost, stable and reliable, is his faith. And Jerusalem is sacred for Christians too. The mere thought of wandering on the path of Christ should be a delight. Instead, he is forced to face the fact, that his personal peace agreement with the Muslim faith is as far from the outer reality as can be. In neither location of faith will he and his protégées be welcome together. He might even encounter difficulties himself, unless he revealed his identity. And being shunned from the most sacred locations of his own faith seems a high price to pay for some old buildings, that probably won’t resemble the peace, he encounters during prayer, doing his own service, while he mirrors the Muslims in his company, because it is safer that way.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Each morning before dawn and before prayer, Nicolo goes through his usual routine, just as thoroughly as on the day, the immortals taught him. Some things are not easily forgotten. Warming up, basic movements, weapon mastery, stretching.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly he does it alone. The mercenaries paid as caravan guards believe training is a waste of time. They only join, when he explicitly asks or if they think, they might be able to put him in his place. Nicolo lets it happen, when possible, he has no difficulties with humility, if it keeps his secrets.</p><p> </p><p>Then, there is prayer, with only those exempt necessary to watch out for the camels or for potential threats. Nicolo mostly provides this service for Aisa, Mahmoud’s daughter, and her husband, it does not hinder his own conversation with God.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, everything is packed on the camels’ back and the leader signals departure. Nicolo’s pack is always ready, with what little he cares about, beside the well-tended and well-worn sword and daggers. Harun though seems to fuss around each day a little longer, just to establish his superiority over the lowly mercenary, who his father in law installed for Aisa’s protection despite Harun’s continued protests. Nicolo meets it with endless patience and gifts the young woman with a fond look, before joining the caravan to watch her back, where Harun won’t.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is much less patient with his insistence to make her walk several steps behind him, which shows all to well, he is less interested in his new wife than in the showing off, into which influential family he was able to marry. The other guards are already joking, for her own sake she should have married Nicolo instead, but his feelings towards her, are entirely brotherly, though, due to Mahmoud’s trust enabling it, they grew quite close.</p><p> </p><p>Today is no different and so Nicolo walks covered in the dust of too many travelers before them. Soon he is thankful for choosing the garb of the desert tribes once more, for it spares him most of the chafing and protects his face from a growing crust of sand.</p><p> </p><p>After several hours of travelling, though, he feels alarmed. The area now is covered in shrubbery, providing an ample number of hiding places, and the lack of events for days have dulled the guards senses. The experience of years tells him, something is about to happen, even before he can hear shouting from the front of the caravan.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo exhales frustrated, as the guards around him run for the bustle, effectively abandoning their post, but does not stop them. The less witnesses for what will probably happen, the better. Only an old fighter with a burning scar covering most of the left side of his face stays with him, nodding a short acknowledgement towards Nicolo. He knows too.</p><p> </p><p>A second later, a volley of arrows fall and cause a minor panic among the travelers and their camels, right before the first robbers appear. Their near perfect timing, minimizing potential losses on their side, shows their experience in their profession.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo needs to hide his experience in his as long as possible. He moves in between Aisa and the oncoming attack, notices with a smirk, Harun has taken shelter behind him as well, smart bastard. Soon, Nicolo can pay him no mind anymore. He is far to occupied with fighting and taking care, no robber gets close to his protégées.</p><p> </p><p>When he notices, the robbers are more interested in wares than in people, he moves away from the main caravan and hides Harun and Aisa from plain view, remaining the only viable target. They in turn don’t try too hard to get him down, when they notice, he will not attack unprovoked. It’s not worth risking their life against an obviously capable opponent.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The bandit attack, well prepared and executed, has left the caravan significantly less wealthy and well protected. So much in fact, that the leader announces, he will turn back after arriving at the next town, so everyone interested in moving on needs to find a new caravan there.</p><p> </p><p>In a way, Nicolo is relieved about that. The attack showed all to well, that the leader still lacks the experience and authority for such an endeavor. He only worries, Harun may choose an even worse option for the next stage of their journey, due to his impatience.</p><p> </p><p>When, the morning after their arrival, he sees the new caravan, Harun expects them to join, his worst fears take shape. “No,” he signs, his face a mask of anger, his eyes but icy drops of water, but Harun doesn’t care and announces all imaginary authority: “Aisa will join me. If you prefer to leave, it’s up to you.”</p><p> </p><p>And Nicolo is tempted. He has no wish to travel with slaves. But for Aisa’s sake he bites back his disgust and keeps to himself. When they return, he needs to have a serious talk with Mahmoud. This boy is a disgrace for his whole family.</p><p> </p><p>She though, seems as unsettled as Nicolo, watching the poor bastards destined for a miserable live in the bustling coastal cities of Northern Africa, and distances herself even further from Harun than before, seeking the emotional shelter Nicolo has to offer as desperately as the physical.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo wished, he could set Harun right, but it seems, the welcome into Mahmouds family got into his head, because, despite the possibility to wait just a few days for another caravan, despite the fact, that they have to travel at the very end of the line and at a slow pace at that, Harun won’t budge. Just to be the one making the decisions.</p><p> </p><p>A serious conversation indeed, Mahmoud will love to hear, Nicolo’s advice was so blatantly disregarded. The thing is only: it doesn’t help their present situation.</p><p> </p><p>Again, and again, walking as close to Aisa, as he dares without raising undeserved suspicion on the nature of their relationship, he tries to persuade himself. It is only a few days. Nothing bad will happen. You will talk to Harun, make him see sense, if for nothing else than the delay of the journey. Everything will be fine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Missed chances</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nothing is fine, of course, and so Nicolo faces great challenges.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had to post this today, just couldn't wait, so enjoy, the next chapter might take some time, as I need to research again. I have never before done so much research on a story</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is night and above them, the starry sky glints in all it’s beauty, thereby providing indisputable proof, the stars have no shame, no mercy for the suffering of humans, here on earth, so far below. For what the sky presents on serenity, is not mirrored at the caravan’s camp.</p><p> </p><p>The constant groaning and moaning of pain, the constant whisper of desperation, cries and sobs, in short, all sorts of noises indicating human tragedy keep Nicolo awake. Even more, because he can do nothing about it.</p><p> </p><p>Harun and Aisa are two of only a few travelers seeking shelter at the back of the heavily guarded troop. Dared Nicolo try anything, he would place them in immediate danger. Furthermore, compared to all the guards and fighters, he would have to die a dozen times and more to make more than an indent into their perimeter. And last… most of the slaves are small boys on their way to become something… less. They are too weak to survive an escape at high speed through harsh environment. There is nothing to be done but to pray.</p><p> </p><p>But this he can do. So he offers his blankets to Aisa, who is always cold during the nights and stays awake, a silent guardian over her sleep, a quiet lament for those poor slaves. Dear God in heaven, there is no boundary of the human aptitude for cruelty.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Well past midnight and after half of his awful watch, Nicolo feels alarmed. Before he can find out, what exactly is off, he hears the soft noise of a body, hitting the ground, not too far off. It happens suspiciously silent. No drowsy grunt, no pained wail. Nothing whatsoever. Meaning, the body in question is probably dead.</p><p> </p><p>Thinking fast, Nicolo kneels by the heads of his protegees, closing his hands over their mouths, so they won’t scream, when he shakes them awake. He hands Harun the beautifully decorated scimitar, the man usually wears, to indicate, what is about to happen, but meets little understanding. Close by, another body falls, another guard is incapacitated. There is no time for Harun’s usual delays, they must go now, before hell breaks loose and another band of bandits attacks the slave caravan and possibly adds the three of them to the inventory.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Aisa remains silent, when he pulls her to her feet, hands her the blankets and urges her forward, away from the caravan, into the night, hoping, they will be overlooked by the attackers and can get away without a fight.</p><p> </p><p>They are not lucky tonight. Just, when he pulls Aisa up a small ledge and before he can do the same for Harun, a dark figure appears, a big strong man, wielding an impressive curved blade that glints even in the sparse light of the stars.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is fast. The other is faster. For years, he has not encountered such a fighter, he thinks, just as his hands close around the blade in his ribs. Then he falls, his last look seeking Aisa, huddled behind a shaking Harun, who just now, soils himself. Damn. No time to play dead.</p><p> </p><p>He bleeds, dies, comes back, as fast as he can, they need him. They need him, or they will face a fate worse than death. One sigh, one look, and he spots the attacker from just a few minutes ago, how finds no match in an almost petrified Harun.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo reacts, before he can cut him down, deflecting the scimitar with ease. The fighter is naturally baffled but turns back to Nicolo none the less. Both take position, their swords clash. Harun tries to intervene, stupidly evolving courage at the worst of moments, and is killed with a single blow. Now it is only Nicolo and the stranger.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing between this nightmarish warrior and Aisa’s demise than Nicolo’s stamina.</p><p> </p><p>So be it, he thinks, and enters the deadly dance, that again, and again and again, sees him cut down. It is strange though. The other is a good fighter, but if Nicolo wasn’t constantly dying and rising, he could swear he injured the other continuously. Or did he just dream that in between the worlds? He fights and fights and fights, and thinks, somehow the other must tire, must hurt, must… fall.</p><p> </p><p>But no matter, what Nicolo throws at him, even, when he shoves him to the ground, even, when he burries his trusted sword into the body, the fighter just won’t stay away, until he no longer believes, this is a human. This is a demon, spit out from the bowels of the desert, taking out revenge on those who so disrespectfully ignore the dignity of human beings. A demon, incapable to differentiate between slavers and mere bystanders.</p><p> </p><p>He will never die, and neither will Nicolo, going on fighting, in a never-ending night, through all eternity. Tiredness numbs his limbs; ungodly fear claws his heart. He can’t do that… he is to weak, so he cries out to Aisa to flee, waits for her to melt into the darkness, until the demon can’t go after her anymore and lets himself get killed, a last, ultimate time.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, he wakes, again, the demon standing right over him, but he stays on the ground, hushes his breath and waits. If there is a morning to come, it will, and if there isn’t, he has all the time in the world to stand up and be slaughtered again.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The light of the morning sun is blinding. Nicolo squints and tries not to move, before he can find out, what is happening around him. The veil he wears against sun and sand also offers some protection against curious eyes and allows him a first look around. There are people moving around him, several, checking dead bodies, scattered over the area, stripping them of valuables and pulling them away. Nicolo can’t see, where to, but is presented with a very unpleasant decision.</p><p> </p><p>If he rises, without knowing how many more people are behind his back, he might not be able to get away. And he learned the hard way, never to expose his special condition, which is inevitable, if a fight ensues.</p><p> </p><p>If he plays dead, on the other hand, his valuables, as little as there are, will be taken away, his body buried, or burned, or, if he is very lucky, left for the vultures. And he might still be found out.</p><p> </p><p>Before he reaches a final verdict and looks for the right moment, a boot hits his back, not half bad. “I think, I got one alive.” Strange language. No Arabic. Russian… no… Greek. How can anyone here possibly be speaking Greek?</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t be”, another voice begs to differ. “I swear, I put my sword right through him. No way, he survived.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, they argue, how the former speaker is sure to see some breathing, until the latter agrees, that maybe, he is still alive, and for the sake of mercy, should be put out of misery. Someone, the fighter from the night, he assumes, casts a shadow over him. Bows down, to search his veil for the right position to slit his throat.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, he is distracted, by someone calling out to him. Nicolo deems it his last chance to keep his only continued companion, his sword, closes his hand around it and slashes upwards. He is granted a scream of pain and surprise and loses no time, jumping into action, rising, having a small look around, which way to go for an escape. To many men around him to go without a fight, he thinks, and gets ready, when a familiar voice cuts through the rising numbness of his battle trance.</p><p> </p><p>“Halim, it’s ok, they mean us no harm, it’s ok.” Aisa. She is alive. He can’t go without her. He hears her running, and before he can turn, she crashes into him, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Allah be praised, I thought, you were dead, you are so full of blood.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but smile, bow down to her and wipe some stain from her brow, just to reassure her, that yes, he is alive, and ready to take care of her, no matter what. Only then, it occurs to him, that right now, she seems in no need to be taken care of. She looks a little disheveled but overall, not too bad. So, he draws even closer, hiding his hands from any potential onlookers and signs his polite request for an explanation.</p><p> </p><p>Aisa reaches up to his veiled cheek and pets it softly. “The attackers last night were here to free the slaves. The boys are theirs, and they… mistook you for a slaver and thought you were trying to abduct me.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo nods, signs his thanks and distances himself again, before this looks to intimate. Another female voice takes his attention, speaking to Aisa. “And he? Is he a slave?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, no…” Aisa wraps her arms around him once more, rendering him incapable to watch out for the speaker. “He works for my father. A man trusted enough to guard my life and my honor… and capable of both.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why does he not speak for himself.” A male voice, sporting the beautiful Arabic of the Magreb. Nicolo turns to it, lured by the undertones of poetic beauty. It’s the man, who just tried to slit his throat and his eyes are as deep and warm as his voice, while his veil gives no inkling, if any of Nicolo’s guesses is true.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo looks down at Aisa, back up to the man, while a brooding realization starts to fill his mind. It is not only the man, who tried to kill him today. But very much so the night before too. A man, he could have sworn, should be dead. A man… who by all means should be lying in his blood. But no… It can’t be. It’s been years. A decade maybe. Without even the guidance of dreams, there is no way…</p><p> </p><p>And if there was… how could he ever… God… he tried to kill him… many times. If it were true, he had succeeded…</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo falls to his knees under the constant stare of brown eyes yet feels unable to look away. It can’t be… must not be.</p><p> </p><p>The other man removes his veil, grins broadly and shouts: “Andromache, Quynh, get the hell over here.”</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s an awkward reunion. Ironically with all their languages available, neither of the immortals comprehend the trader’s signing, so all the answers to their questions depend on Aisa’s patient translation. She looks happy, speaks with her hands just as fast as with her lips.</p><p> </p><p>Signs to him, he needs not be lonely anymore, with a wink, right into the conversation, with neither of the others noticing. Nicolo can’t help but smile for the first nice secret he has ever kept; however small it might be.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, it does not feel like it. Andromache’s bear hug, Quynh’s impressed smile about his fighting stance… They do not break the ice within him. He is not ready yet. And that look of Yussuf. Caught between longing and reluctance.</p><p> </p><p>He cannot offer comfort.</p><p> </p><p>With the sudden intrusion back into his life, all the penned up hurt, all the loneliness, come crashing down on him. He has forgotten. Not forgiven. And with the dressings to his wounds ripped apart, they bleed like they were slashed yesterday. Wounds, he until now didn't even know, he had… Back then, he thought, it was just him… No… not yet.</p><p> </p><p>He signs as much to Aisa, indicating, it might not be good to translate it immediately, and she stops, watching him intently. Soon Andromache picks up the mood, watching too, furrowing her brow. “Nicolo?” Now he has all their attention, more than he ever wanted. Aisa doesn’t understand and signs a question to him. He doesn’t quite catch it; he doesn’t see so well anymore…</p><p> </p><p>Jerkily he turns and walks away. Someone rises from their seat to follow him, someone else intervenes. He can hear them talking but doesn’t look back. He goes not far, just watches the horizon that right now looks far more reliable, far more promising than any human.</p><p> </p><p>After a few moments, he can feel Aisa coming to his side, taking his hand and raising it to her forehead in a soft gesture of trust. “I thought, they are your friends?”, she whispers, holding onto it. He turns to her, can only see honest worry in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>She lets go of his hand, when he raises them, as if to sign to her, but he does not know, what to tell her. How to tell her. In the end, he decides against it and just signs: “I took responsibility for you. I won’t abandon you. Everything else can be sorted out thereafter.”</p><p> </p><p>She is so used to only see his eyes he is unable to lie to her. She sees, there is so much more to say, so much, he won’t or can’t talk about right now, and she accepts it. Might be, she is just afraid. Right now, he is her only connection to home. His strong arm and strong mind will bring her back. Nicolo doubts it. Three years have been enough to grow into the brother she never had.</p><p> </p><p>He bows before her, pressing his face into her hands and signs: “Tell them, I will meet them two years from now in Damascus. At your father’s house.” Two years will be ample time to show her the sacred sites in the holy land and bring her back home. “I will wait for you, south of here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Should I mention, it's almost crusade time again? So it technically fits the quotes "Nicky and I met in the crusades (again)" and "we killed each other. - Many times." ?<br/>I admit, I am proud, I pulled that one 😁</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Faith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Leaving a chance of reconciliation behind, Nicolo faces a crisis... Or maybe more than one.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A big chapter, lots of thoughts, but little action. I still felt it necessary. <br/>To much listening to Hozier, seemingly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On their now very lonely path towards Jerusalem, Aisa provides constant chatter. She asks thousands of questions, he doesn’t really answer, comments on the landscape, on the remnants of past wars, on the weather, while he watches the horizon for any signs of trouble.</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t evade her legitimate questions forever and so he sits her down, below a gnarly tree, when the sun is highest, and shares a meagre meal with her. “Ask”, he signs and tries to look encouraging, although he feels everything but that.</p><p> </p><p>“Well…” she hesitates. “Why did you leave, without talking to them first? It seems hardly fair. The man had literal tears in his eyes…”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo sighs, loosens his veil, so she can see all of his face. “We didn’t part on good terms. I didn’t know, it would hurt so much to see them again”, his hands spell out for her, while he fails in withstanding her look.</p><p> </p><p>Despite their station, Aisa pulls him into a hug, though he swiftly ends it, for safety’s sake. “It wasn’t fair, though”, he admits belatedly and hopes, she will move on to the next question.</p><p> </p><p>Aisa nods and pats his arm. “You are allowed some missteps. So… Nicolo… is that your real name?” He grins at this totally innocent inquiry and cocks his head. “Or Halim? What is it?” He comments with another even more radiant smile, giving her no hint whatsoever. He really doesn’t mind, what she calls him.</p><p> </p><p>“Halim, can you take me serious, for a change?”</p><p> </p><p>He bows to that and signs: “We have to make decisions. Means: you must. I am but your guardian.” When she fearfully shakes her head in defiance, he adds: “And your advisor, if you wish.”</p><p> </p><p>This earns him another hug, even more close and thus, more dangerous than the first. He needs to stop that, before it gets out of hand, no matter how much he starves for human contact.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo refuses Aisa’s suggestion to travel as husband and wife, though it is probably safest, but agrees to pose as her brother. It still means, he will carry all the money and at least pretend to make most of the decisions, but that can’t be helped. It is what people expect to see.</p><p> </p><p>It also means, he will have to upgrade his clothes. He will still go with a cheche, but of much better quality. And if someone ever asks, they will say, his mother was a Circassian concubine, it will at least explain the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Furthermore, they agree on a few basic rules and signs, so she can stop him, whenever something goes against her wishes. He is very insistent on that, and notices with relief, she is willing to put up with his quirks, just as her father was.</p><p> </p><p>The next, and most important, decision she needs to make all on her own, Nicolo neither encourage nor dissuades her: will they follow through, visit the sacred sites of Jerusalem and Mecca or will they just go home to Damascus. At first, it seems, fear gets the better of her, and she is about to choose the simple solution.</p><p> </p><p>But the longer Nicolo watches her, the more liking she takes to her new freedom of choice, the less likely it is, for her to choose the golden cage over the once in a lifetime opportunity his constant guard presents her. Before they arrive at the next city, now only two travelers with one camel, she makes up her mind to go on.</p><p> </p><p>They now choose not to search for another caravan. The country here is relatively well populated, and after their last encounters in the “safety” of caravans, Nicolo thinks it’s easier to just slip by unnoticed. He is partially right. Most of the times, especially, after he buys new clothing, they don’t even justify a second look, if they enter a settlement or leave it. Him, leading the camel, her, riding it.</p><p> </p><p>And when they gather unwanted attention, it is mostly that of merchants, advertising their wares to a most disinterested traveler.</p><p> </p><p>On one occasion though, they are attacked, just a day before they expect to arrive at Jerusalem. It is not obvious, what the three men, ambushing them, fancy, the woman or the camel, only, that they are willing to kill for it.</p><p> </p><p>Mockingly lavish Nicolo pulls out his sword, hoping, this show alone might provoke them to make a run, but they don’t get the message and attack instead. Nicolo sidesteps the first, whose wide strike pushes him off balance and gives Nicolo all time he needs to slash his arm open so badly, he cannot hold on to the nasty piece of metal, that counts as a scimitar for these robbers. Using him as shield against the second attack, he goes for the third man, who seems to be the leader of this outfit. He is better equipped and educated than the others, yet, just as stupid. Nicolo ducks below his overhead strike, deflects the attempted riposte and puts a dagger from his belt to good use, burying it deep into the man’s body, where it hurts, but probably not immediately kills.</p><p> </p><p>He does not get into a fight with the third man, who wisely makes the decision to flee. To Aisa’s genuine surprise he kills neither of the remaining would-be robbers but helps them patch up their wounds and sends them on their way, signing a quote of Allah’s wisdom and mercy.</p><p> </p><p>They look at him, as if he was mad, which ensures his safety just as good as any death could, leaving him with less to apologize for, when he ever meets his creator.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>“Where does all this talk of mercy and God come from?”, Aisa asks, just as they reach the shadow of the walls of Jerusalem, and Nicolo shrugs. Even his broad understanding of the sign language leaves him little vocabulary on such complex questions. A language created to haggle is ill-equipped for philosophical discussions.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to ignore her inquiries as usual, but she won’t let him. Gliding from the camel’s back and joining his side, when he steps into the line waiting to enter through the city gates, she touches his arm and pulls, until he faces her. “Halim, you so easily forgive strangers but the vilest sins and walk away from friends without a second look?”</p><p><br/>
Nicolo bows his head in embarrassment. It is one way to see it and a valid argument at that. When his hands start to speak, they do it reluctantly, as insecure as when he first learned the language and still feared, he might accidentally insult someone.</p><p> </p><p>“The robbers did not hurt me nor you. And are scared out of their wits as befitting punishment.”</p><p> </p><p>He will have to have a talk with Aisa. Such gestures of endearment, as her, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek, are not well-received by strangers. They are however comforting. “So, they did hurt you?”</p><p> </p><p>He almost nods, before refraining from it. They did not want to hurt him. It was a simple misunderstanding. He knows that. No matter, what it feels like, those are the facts. He was not ready for their life and they were not ready to understand his. Since then, he has grown into someone different. Someone stronger and more responsible. Someone forgiving and faithful. It means something good. But it also means, he has to learn to know them again, grow fond of them. Love them.</p><p> </p><p>No… A stab of immaterial pain makes him wince… audibly. He does love them. He is <em>in</em> love, with one of them. He forgot about that too. It made everything easier… Less hurting, less painful. “It is not that easy.” The signs are precise as ever, though his feelings, his thoughts are not.</p><p> </p><p>Moving along the line slowly, he tries to regain his composure under Aisa’s inquisitive stare. “It never is.” After that, she mutely follows along, until they pass the guards at Jerusalem’s most northern gate and get a first look at life in one of the most sacred cities ever built.</p><p> </p><p>There, in the face of another unexpected normalcy, she deals another blow to his serene calm: “Did you know, father pondered to marry me to you, before the offer from Harun’s family? And that I declined, because I certainly didn’t want to marry someone, who is more like a brother to me?”</p><p> </p><p>Now he is staring at her… Openly. And at loss for words. She tucks him along and points to a caravansary, as if nothing noteworthy happened. “We should stay there, overnight… Go for the mosques tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>He agrees, gets caught up in the daily dealings, all in sign language, sees her leave to the female quarters here, that can barely count as a true harem. But they are safe enough and male entrance is restricted, so they will do.</p><p> </p><p>He stays outside, alone with too many thoughts at once. Too many thinks, he chose to forget instead of facing them, or not to acknowledge at all.</p><p> </p><p>He recounts them, although it hurts, a necessary penance before forgiveness and peace can be received.</p><p> </p><p>He is a grown man, responsible for the choices made, and it is undignified to blame someone else.</p><p> </p><p>He chose to turn his back on the immortals, who offered him his first home, twice now. He does not excuse it but examines both accounts with unbiased attention.</p><p> </p><p>The first departure was certainly necessary, although he went for all the wrong reasons. May it have been his damaged pride or ill-placed guilt, neither was well-chosen. It still let him to do the right things, build an image of himself, based on his knowledge and ability instead of past hurt and weakness. He now knows his own value, knows what he can do and will do. And for what reasons. He is no longer driven by mere necessity but choice.</p><p> </p><p>The second departure was equally necessary, though indefinitely crueler. Facing the remnants of the past unprepared would just lead to more heartbreak. It would make them walk another path of constant misunderstandings and damaged self-images. He could not let himself be pulled into their current so oblivious again. This time, it will be, needs to be conscious decision to join them, to take his place. To love. To be loved in return.</p><p> </p><p>It will be hard to meet them and ask for their forgiveness. Yussuf’s especially. It will be hard to face the possibility of rejection. The long way to reconciliation. And he does no one a favor, if he does not first face himself.</p><p> </p><p>As it is written, he remembers, in the shadow of Christ’s presence: Love thy neighbor as you love thyself. Yes… it means loving your enemy, handing out forgiveness. But it also means, love yourself. Make peace with your past, so you can meet with your future.</p><p> </p><p>There is a last thing, he needs to face… He should have known. He stayed to long, and now he is bound to stay even longer. Aisa… Mahmoud. There is no harm done, but it could have been. Taking responsibility results in gratitude, which in turn leads to feelings. He should have known, would have known, if he had not been so caught in his loneliness. Should have nipped it in the bud.</p><p> </p><p>Instead he stayed longer than was wise and earned himself a place in their hearts. It will be hard to leave, again.</p><p> </p><p>And yet. He feels unable to regret it.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Mosques in Jerusalem are not by any means the most beautiful he has ever seen. They are still special. Their monumental size, the special air of faith, the sheer weight of the past, pouring down from their walls, all add up to a special atmosphere, Aisa finds delightful.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo does not tell her, he experiences it very different. He is no Muslim, he never told her that. Or Mahmoud. And his own faith has sworn death to all, who roam here, and failed, though not for the lack of trying. In the eyes of one faith, he is a heathen, in the other a traitor. He has not even tried visiting the famous churches of Jerusalem, knowing, he would not be welcome there, much less so his maybe-sister Aisa. And he suffers the Mosques for her sake.</p><p> </p><p>And while she slowly walks along the walls, taking in the beautiful ornaments everywhere, kept safe by his constant watch, he prays, and doesn’t even know, what for. Forgiveness? Understanding? Enlightenment?</p><p> </p><p>God does hear, if he voices it or not. And Nicolo believes with all his might, he is on the right path. God won’t hate him for making peace, for loving, where there is only hatred, for offering forgiveness… The dissent with the holy roman church still hurts. It forbids him the sacraments, he so desperately longs for, the wisdom and guidance of confession, the familiarity of communion.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, his sins may differ from others, but he is far from innocent. How often has he stood by and watched, instead of acting, damned be the price? God gave him eternal life. The power to come back even from the grizzliest death. And he made him promise to use it.</p><p> </p><p>Has Nicolo? Has he pleased the Lord in heaven? Or has he disappointed on every step along the way. There is no way of telling.</p><p> </p><p>Jerusalem is no good for him. And, although it is still far away, the shadow of Mecca already weighs down on him as well.</p><p> </p><p>How can he face a crisis of faith and of emotion all at once? Oh, good Lord, he prays for the wisdom to walk the chosen path…</p><p> </p><p>The common prayer in the Mosque, divided from Aisa through thin walls but close, the now all to familiar forms of rising, bowing, kneeling, help him focus.</p><p> </p><p>In the crowd, he is nothing but another stranger, praying for God’s favor. Does it really matter, it is the wrong one? If they find out, they will stone him to death. And what a fitting fate, no?</p><p> </p><p>He won’t let it happen. Aisa needs him, faith or no.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo all but flees Jerusalem. Aisa would have stayed longer and does not understand, why he is so insistent. She does not yet understand, she could sway him, if she just asked. But under the circumstances… maybe she can feel Nicolo’s distress, his longing for the freedom of the roads, the suffocation of all those walls.</p><p> </p><p>Either way, she follows his lead again. They head for Sharm-el-sheik, a town on the shores of the red sea, a place, where they will find a ship to bring them close to Mecca. It seems preferable to a journey by foot, that would take them at least two months through the harshest of environments, caught between sea and desert.</p><p> </p><p>And there will be all kinds of ships for passengers. They can be hardly the only ones going on a hajj, not even the most unusual. Every Muslim is expected to do it once during his lifetime after all…</p><p> </p><p>There it is again, that familiar sting of guilt. He won’t give in again. He will go on and keep Aisa safe, this will be his personal hajj, no harm done.</p><p> </p><p>It will not keep him awake at night, it will not hinder his thoughts, it will not lead to even more gloomy thoughts. As if.</p><p> </p><p>In the dead of the night, Aisa tucked into the blankets warm and sound, he watches the glint of the stars and cries soundless. Cries of the past, he cannot get rid of and the past he lost by his own choice. Ten years with a family… more… possibly, he didn’t count. Cries of the present, where his heart burns for love and his body for touches that never happen. For someone who was once able to make a living of that body, he is spectacularly starved. Cries of the future that holds so much to suffer, so little to hope for.</p><p> </p><p>Doubts break him down, each day a little more, until he counts the hours, the miles, the steps, until they can get somewhere, somewhere with people. Where he has to be careful and attentive, where there are things to do, challengers to master, opponents to fight.</p><p> </p><p>The emptiness of the desert echoes him back into himself until he can feel every wound and scar. Every empty space, where love should be. Every mistake and failure.</p><p> </p><p>He hides it, not to scare her, but she knows. Wakes up, and hugs him, lets him bury his face in her robes, wordlessly promising to never mention the tears. “Halim? We can go back, if you want to… We can go, find them…” And oh, is he tempted.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter might take a while, I have literally no written word yet for it... I am a little scared of that... but usually your comments bring me back on track... *fingers crossed*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Hajj</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolo accompanies Aisa... until he can't anymore.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had to... Please don't hate me... I hate myself somewhat... </p><p>Plus: the description of the hajj itself is deliberately vague to avoid hurting religious feelings. I am no Muslim but respect all beliefs and decided, not to push the limits.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The arrival at Sharm-el-Sheik comes as a relief. From here, they will not walk alone again. Lots of travelers meet here to take a ship, it is easy to secure a trip for Aisa and him, just using the trader’s signing.</p><p> </p><p>Most of their new travel companions are on a hajj as well, the women providing ample distraction for Aisa, talking to her about her husband and family, future kids and past loves. The men eye Nicolo with distrust, that does not ebb, when they notice the color of his eyes. He is too comfortable around them to be a stranger to their culture, yet, too different to fit in.</p><p> </p><p>It does not go unnoticed. Neither does his refusal to do something about it. Some shun him for it, some just ignore it, and there is always those, attracted by the obvious proof of superior beauty.</p><p> </p><p>“She isn’t your wife, is she?” The weathered sailor speaks beautiful Arabic, far from the clean-cut standard of the madrasas. He has been friendly enough and shares Nicolo’s wish to stay on deck for the night.</p><p> </p><p>“No, my sister,” he signs in the light of the moon and the other nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t be easy for you, as her guardian. Does her father acknowledge you?” It’s a difficult question, and he chooses not to dive into that darkness. Of course, there is those, who treat their slaves well and care for the children, they father on them, and those, who simply see them as additional servants. Mahmoud does neither and Nicolo refuses to stain his name, although it would be safer, if he did.</p><p> </p><p>The sailor lets it slip. “You could stay, you know? We would make a good sailor of you in no time…” he nods approvingly and grins. “Marry your sister off to a haji and let him bring her home… I am sure, your father would approve.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo smiles in amusement and shakes his head. “I owe her…”</p><p> </p><p>It still feels good to be offered the simple friendship of the older man. Together, people are less alone…</p><p> </p><p>All to soon, the sailor leaves to check the lines, and Nicolo stays, leaning against a bunch of boxes to get some sleep.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Soft eyes, soft kisses, hands, wrapped around him, interlaced with his own. Sweet nothings whispered into his ear, a strong body pressed against his back, keeping him safe. Comfortable dark warmth, smelling of spices and sweat and love. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo wakes up burning and needy, feeling the loss more intense than ever. It is cold out here and he is thankful for that, a cold bath would be even better… But this will have to wait, until they are back on land. As so many things…</p><p> </p><p>He is relieved, when the sun rises, and the other passengers come on deck. As Aisa joins him, watching the horizon for a sign of a harbor, he allows himself a small pleasure and takes her hand, caressing the fingers gently, his eyes smiling down on her, the fix star on his present sky. It is small, in the great perspective of things, it does not appease his hunger for touches, it is unhelpful as hell for their try on presenting proper distance.</p><p> </p><p>He still needs it, because he can’t have, what is beyond the horizon. Because he can’t have his love.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Arriving at Dschidda, only two days walk from Mecca, Nicolo and Aisa find out, they have done well to choose a rather unusual route for Mecca. The more common, gigantic pilgrimage caravans offer little privacy, and the way through the Sinai desert took a terrible price, paid in the life and blood of men and women alike, in goods and animals, in hope and despair.</p><p> </p><p>Here at last, they are forced to join the huge number of people, taking the religious duty of the hajj, and they are a view to behold. More people than Nicolo has ever seen. An ocean of people from all over the eastern world, with skin colors ranging from the darkest black of the night to a sunburnt color not so different from his own.</p><p> </p><p>He gets nervous, when he is expected to remove his headdress and expose his face and hair but receives barely a second look. Even lighter hair than his can be found in convertites. Knowing the customs and rites is the crucial part here, and he lives in this land long enough to fit in.</p><p> </p><p>Furthermore, it is not half as bad as Jerusalem, because of the mass of people. Of course, many are caught up in religious wonder, but others are not, and he needs to watch out for them, so Aisa can have her hajj in peace. Together the walk the traditional paths, stone the devil, sacrifice some hair, and while doing all that, Nicolo strictly avoids thinking of god. Any god. Both their gods. Or are they one god in truth?</p><p> </p><p>It is impossible to imprison his doubts and ignore his faith, while so many are praying. So praying it is. Oh, dear God in heaven, show me the way, keep safe those, I care for, help me fight the good fight and ban evil from this world…</p><p> </p><p>When, after the wide area of the desert, they reenter the city of Mecca, something shifts. The songs of prayer suddenly give way to shrieks of panic and pain, while the current of people reverses.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo cannot see, what happened, nor does he really understand, what will follow, but his senses are alarmed all the same. More and more pilgrims stream back into streets already filled to the brink. There is no way forward, no way back and the pressure from both sides rises. Already so many bodies are pressed together, thickly packed, that one can barely breathe.</p><p> </p><p>This is bound to end in tragedy, and all he can do, is keep Aisa safe. Quickly he looks around, finds some beams used to erect fabric shields against the sun on market days. They are to high up to reach them standing on the ground, but on his shoulders, she might be able to reach them. He shakes her, almost violently and points to them, until an understanding dawns in her face.</p><p> </p><p>When she nods, he pushes her up, first on his shoulders, then further. Gives her a last shove, so she can hold onto the timber, pulling herself into a sitting position. Others around him try to follow his lead and safe their loved ones but are neither strong nor trained enough to do so.</p><p> </p><p> But while Aisa is his priority, he does not hesitate to help out, where he can, before the pressure gets overwhelming. One last shove, saving a girl of barely fifteen from potential harm, by placing her on a high wall, then he can’t do no more, for the current pulls him away, throws him around, just like anyone else. He hears her cry out, as she cuts herself on the sharp stones laid out against thieves and cannot comfort her, but at least, she will live.</p><p> </p><p>He cannot think of her, anymore, he is getting dizzy and weak, helplessly pushed and pulled around, with panic rising so overwhelmingly, that no man can stand against it. People scream and cry, heads simply disappear in the crowd and resurface no more. There is no rule to survival, it is random and empty. He collides with arms and legs and walls, feels pain in a hundred different places at once. He loses his footing and is shoved back and forth, in a motion like the waves of a nightmarish ocean. For a while he manages to swim, to keep his head above the surface, for a while, he lives.</p><p> </p><p>But the current is merciless and pulls him down, deep into the mass of packed bodies, where there is no space, no air, no survival. It’s not falling, for there is no space to fall. It is being swallowed into a tarpit, weighing down on every limb, slowly pulling him into an endless death.</p><p> </p><p>Everything goes black with his head hitting the ground, he comes back, limbs break, ribs and bones are shattered, he suffocates, he drowns, he is trampled and stoned to death, there is no beginning and no end, only darkness and bodies and death.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The silence, when he comes back, is not one of peace. His head lies somewhere warm and soft and when he opens his eyes, he can see Aisa’s face. She has been crying. He gasps softly, not to startle her, but the need to force air back into his lungs is overwhelming.</p><p> </p><p>“You…” With a sudden movement she jumps away, lets his head hit the cobblestones. “You were dead. Your head was cracked open and you were bleeding and…” None of it is visible anymore. He knows. He dreads the scared look in her eyes, he dreads the fact, she found him, before he was back.</p><p> </p><p>“It can’t be”, he signs. “I am here with you.”</p><p> </p><p>But her memories are clear, her belief isn’t swayed so easily. When he moves closer, she moves away, so he stops. Leaving her space.</p><p> </p><p>“If I died, Allah has brought me back to see you safely home”, his hands spell, his eyes desperately fixed to hers. She may well see, he is not telling the whole truth, if she only believes, he is no threat to her. But, rising in her distrust, her continued ignoring of the hand he extends to her, is a whole new world of suffering and pain.</p><p> </p><p>It is so pointless to lose her like that, so unbelievably sad. To save her from certain death only to see her carried away on the waves of her own fear.</p><p> </p><p>He does not try to mask his feelings, he couldn’t anyways, and in the end, she takes his hand. “Okay… bring me home.” It holds no comfort though. The way, she looks at him, is cruelly neutral, their hearts no longer beat in unison. Instead, hers is now shaken by the holy fear of the unknown, distant, already lost.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The way back to Damascus leaves constant reminder of his loss. Aisa never talks to him again, but for the most basic reasons. She doesn’t smile at him either, nor tuck at his arm or poke his side. No stories lighten his way, no friendly teasing.</p><p> </p><p>The long way home couldn’t be more sorrowful if they were going to a funeral. And every time, she turns away, Nicolo is on the brink of tears, asking himself, was this his fault? Is Allah such wrathful God, he would kill hundreds of innocents, just to punish Nicolo for trespassing the sacred sites?</p><p> </p><p>If so, he has found the most effective way to do it. Even Aisa’s death would be less hurtful. They would have parted at peace and he would have mourned her. It would have pained him, but death is part of his life. This emotional limbo is not.</p><p> </p><p>Arriving back below the high walls of Damascus, with not even one year passed, leaves him with only one final duty. To deliver her to her father’s home.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Mahmoud’s house is no less impressive and full of activity than when Nicolo left it. The outer gate is open as usual, with servants and customers, donkeys and camels passing through. If he and Aisa stand out from the crowd by any means, it is because of their worn clothing and travel-weary posture.</p><p> </p><p>Bolder, than he feels, he steps forward and taps the steward on the shoulder, when he is unoccupied. It is one Mahmoud’s nephews, who knows him well and smiles in happy surprise, when he realizes, it is Nicolo.</p><p> </p><p>Spontaneously he pulls him into a short, but firm hug and shouts out to other people, who are equally joyous, even more, when they notice, he brought Aisa home and she is fine. A wave of sympathy washes over him, but leaves him unchanged, weighed down by the distance, Aisa puts between them even now. He should be used to it by now, but against the contrast of all those familiar people, it hurts even more. It is, as if they are still all alone in a world, the chasm between them unbridgeable and the family that now embraces her only distant noise.</p><p> </p><p>During his last, longing goodbye look, before she is hurried to the women’s quarters to refresh from the journey, Mahmoud finally steps out form one of the buildings. His beard consists of more grey, than Nicolo remembers, his face bears more crinkles.</p><p> </p><p>When he sees them, all distant, reading the situation much better than his servants and family, his brow furrows, and the mood tips. In sudden action, he pulls his scimitar, pushes everyone out of the way and pins Nicolo to the next wall. “What have you done to my daughter?”, he shouts, finding guilty answer in Nicolo’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Very slowly he raises his hands, carefully avoiding any movement towards his own weapons. “I was forced to show her the full extent of my abilities…”, he grazes the truth and continues, signing: “She couldn’t stay friends with me, then.”</p><p> </p><p>In a last reminiscence of their former pact, Aisa comes to his help, placing her hand softly on her father’s forearm, making him lower the weapon. “Halim has been a most loyal and faithful servant, father.”</p><p> </p><p>Over his beautiful sword, they exchange a last hurt look.</p><p> </p><p>I used to be your brother. I know… I am sorry.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she departs, leaving Nicolo devastated. He sinks down against the wall, barely maintaining an image of composure.</p><p> </p><p>For long moments Mahmoud stares down on him, trying to assess the situation, trying to understand, patiently making up his mind. Eventually he offers Nicolo his hand and pulls him up, assuming, he knows, what she might have seen.</p><p> </p><p>His hand own Nicolo’s shoulder is warm and so is his hospitality. He invites Nicolo back into his home, offers him a bath, food, fresh clothing. He does not ask him about the journey and Nicolo does not tell him. He informs him, however of Harun’s demise and offers his condolences on it.</p><p> </p><p>Mahmoud respects it, though he is far from upset, and promises to take care of Harun’s family. Later, they discuss, how to go on, and Nicolo decides to stay in his service for another year. Until they come. Until is chosen exile is over.</p><p> </p><p>After this day, he never again enters Mahmoud’s house though, nor catches a single glimpse of Aisa. And it is agreed, not to talk of that either.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>At least, something better is coming.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Healing wounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After two years passed, the immortals meet again, trying to reform a union.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The good news: this is, what you all want, sweet and fluffy and wholesome. I just had to post it before the weekend.<br/>The bad news: it will most likely be the last update at least until Monday and it is short.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been two years to the day and Nicolo is waiting. Has been for some time now, albeit knowing, they won’t come early. He has found himself a place to overlook the entrance to Mahmoud’s house, without ever going there, without even gaining view of the inner courtyard. The man, whose roof he so unceremoniously claimed, doesn’t mind. Nicolo pays well for the little favor.</p><p> </p><p>By now, he has worked out the perfect way to jump from one fix point to the other, easily going from roof height all the way down to the streets, without ever risking injury. A task, taking him less than a minute.</p><p> </p><p>It is the small pleasures, he tells himself. Loneliness really gets the better of him, it seems. Nevertheless… the fluidity of movement, be it the motion of his dance with the sword or a more acrobatic task, calms the senses. Mastery comes in many forms, and constant practice is crucial…</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The sun just rose, the air is still pleasantly cool. He can see them, all three of them, coming down the street, long before they arrive, but he takes his time to take the view in. They are on horse-back, their weapons strapped to their back, their clothing hiding everything but hands and eyes. He cannot read them, but their movements are as telling as can be.</p><p> </p><p>It is them. And just maybe, they are just as tense, feel just as reluctant as him.</p><p> </p><p>He pushes himself forward, downward, one sparse motion at a time, until his feet touch the sand on the street. Each step a double take on luring a wild animal, being tamer and tamed all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Ultimately, just in front of the gate, he waits, motion finally ceasing. Waiting. Alone… as lost as can be. The draw close, halt, maybe ten steps away and dismount. Yussuf rushes forward, stops, when he realizes, that Nicolo does not reciprocate, trapped by his stare, deep blue waters, filled with longing and disappointment, comfort and hurt, the urge to close the distance and the fear to do so.</p><p> </p><p>There is no sudden revelation. The world does not stop and turn a better place. Only the morning wind gets up, plays idly with the fabric of their clothes.</p><p> </p><p>But.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly Nicolo removes his veil, walks, one step at a time, until he is at arm’s length. Tries to unclench his jaw, tries to reach out…</p><p> </p><p>When his fingertips meet Yussuf’s, they tingle and curl. He is not used to touch anymore. Even the smallest of caresses is too much for the senses. He can see the hurt in his beloved eyes, when he jerks back, yet has no comfort for him, he would understand right now.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he makes one more step, rests the fingertips gently on Yussuf’s clothed shoulder, leaning over, just breathing softly into his face, as if sharing his very life within without an actual touch. The foreheads touch lightly, disconnect again, when he passes, while Yussuf is turning with him.</p><p> </p><p>Then he faces Andromache and Quynh, this a lighter way, he walks humbly, begging for forgiveness with his bowed head. He would kneel, he would. It is not a question of pride. But it would turn up all wrong. They will need to forgive, but they will have to regret too. This is a meeting at eye level.</p><p> </p><p>Never again can he let them bear over him, no matter how good the intention. He would have taken every bet, Quynh would make the first step, but it is Andromache, urging forward, discarding his cheche and burying her hand at the back of his neck, pulling him into a wordless hug.</p><p> </p><p>“I missed you, Nico.” It is literally the first time, she calls him that, and strangely, it resonates with him. He nods and closes his arms around her back, despite the tremble in his limbs. Neither of them is particularly good at emotion, and so the contact is short. Andromache steps back, petting the nape of his neck one last time, gifting him with a smile specifically reserved only for him, before she turns him towards her companion.</p><p> </p><p>Now, that he faces Quynh, he understands her reluctance. She cannot even look at him, is it from… disappointment… unlikely… she would have gotten over that by now. Then, guilt it is, obviously. Time for Nicolo to build bridges. He holds no grudges, fears no evil from her. For her, he moves down, matching her smaller shape, so he can meet her eyes, smiling at her. When the corners of her mouth twitch with his, he pulls her chin up, while rising and gently pushes a unruly strain of hair from her face.</p><p> </p><p>The embrace from her, he finds himself caught in, is almost over-whelming, her face radiant. The others close in, surrounding him, but not caging him in. Reigns of a spare horse are passed into his hand and then, they mount their animals again, steering them back towards the gates.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo strays after them, by foot, turning one last time, waving goodbye to the sole guard taking care of his mentor’s house so early in the morning.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It is Quynh telling him, riding beside him, what happened after their short meeting between Damascus and Jerusalem two years ago. In endearing detail, she lays out for him, how they helped the Greek villagers return their kids, were they belonged and how afterwards they made it barely out alive for all the gratitude, they were showered with.</p><p> </p><p>She also informs him, they were unable to find a teacher for the signing language he uses, despite continued effort, especially from Yussuf. That makes Nicolo laugh out loud. He should have known the traders are somewhat secretive with their signs. He only learned them, because he travelled with them, shared their meals and their waters, sweated with them and fought with them. He will have to teach them, then. It is a small exercise, one he fancies.</p><p> </p><p>She does not tell him, why Yussuf still keeps his distance. And she does not have too. It I not rejection, nor lack of emotion. It is anxiety. This time, it will be Nicolo, who will need to be strong, protective. It plasters another more tender smile onto his face, one, he cannot stop.</p><p> </p><p>Cautiously he steers the still unfamiliar horse to his side and reaches out, touching Yussuf’s arm to gain his attention. And then, he teaches him the first, most important sign. “I love you.” It makes Yussuf smile. And for now, that is enough. Needs to be.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The distance between them for longer than most couples even are with each other, creates a whole universe of new firsts. The first touch. The first smile. The first time during the break at noon, when Yussuf breaks his bread in two parts and hands one part over to Nicolo.</p><p> </p><p>It is insanely endearing and maddingly strange. On the one hand, he knows this man. Knows every inch of his skin, knows the taste of his tongue and the sound of his gasps of pleasure. Little details resurface like drops of water flowing over the metal of a shield, glistening in the sun like diamonds.</p><p> </p><p>On the other hand, the distance is real and cannot be bridged by mere wishful thinking. Even the most simple gesture, the gentlest touch is new and terrifying. How can he reach out and embrace, caress, kiss? How can he ever get reacquainted with the one body he desires most, desires at all, when he dares not make a move?</p><p> </p><p>The second part of their shared ride, he is exceptionally silent and distant, even accounting the circumstances. He will not bear sleeping alone. Ever again. He will not accept it. His thoughts go around and around like a maelstrom, constantly repeating this one thing. He will not lose his love again. And to do that, he will need to take some initiative, show some responsibility.</p><p> </p><p>This is easier said than done. The start though <em>is</em> easy. Dismounting, building a camp, preparing a fire and cooking a meal. Work, so essential to his life for years, the mere routine calms his mind, gives him familiar comfort, the fading light a constant reminder to hurry, before the sand cools and the night falls. It is equally pleasant to sense the experience of his new and old companions.</p><p> </p><p>Each of their tasks is as efficiently performed as his own, finally in a synchronized rhythm he never achieved, when they were still on their first try. Now, it comes, all by itself, unbidden, but welcome. He needs not care for the horse, as Andromache is best with those, he needs not search the saddle bags, Quynh knows each and every content, lays them out for them.</p><p> </p><p>He needs not place the bedrolls; this is Yussuf’s work. And then… Three stacks off blankets neatly placed around the fire, he stops, the fourth helplessly clenched between his fists, looking just as lost as Nicolo. Just as lonely.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, it is so simple. He stands up, walks over, burying his own hands in the blankets, leaning forward.</p><p> </p><p>It is not a kiss, when their lips meet. Yussuf does not move. It is reassurance, it is a declaration of love. I am here, I am for you, you are safe with me. I got you.</p><p> </p><p>Then he takes the bedroll and places it right beside the other, close, overlapping. A body crashes into his, tears him to the ground, rolls around with him, a face is pressed into his shoulder, hands are around him, not caressing… holding on, gripping, a hot breath tickles the lobe of his ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Get yourself a room”, Andromache fondly growls from beyond the fire and laughs, cuddling with Quynh and watching them teasingly. And happy. Yes… happy.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf laughs too, a little embarrassed and tries to disentangle their limbs, which is no small task now. But soon enough they sit beside each other, legs and sides joined, each with a bowl of food, barely able to eat, for their entwined hands, unwilling to let go anyways.</p><p> </p><p>From time to time, either leans in, placing a small kiss here and there. Not yet daring to try the face, instead clinging to safe ground, hands, forearms, shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t be like this. Stop at this…</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo musters up all his courage, closer, closer, rubs his cheek into Yussuf’s, brushes by his ear. The bowl falls, discarded, food spills onto the ground, irresponsibly wasteful, just, because he needs his hand to pull him closer, cup his cheek, feel his beard, his skin.</p><p> </p><p>He licks the soft spot between jaw and ear, the company at the other side of the fire all but forgotten, by the time, he more feels than hears the pleasured gasp.</p><p> </p><p>He is doing this wrong, if Yussuf has still the presence of mind to rise and pull him with him, out, away, into the silent darkness, he can do better.</p><p> </p><p>Away, not to far, not so, they won’t be heard, they settle, this time the world fades out under weight of small touches, of breathy moans and helpless shivers.</p><p> </p><p>The fear to have forgotten too much, to be unable to live up to the memory comes and goes, only a short-lived shadow. All insecurities are washed away, all distance closed. They don’t really do much beside cuddling and kissing and pressing against each other, but it is, what they need. What he needs. Everything else is too much now. Everything else will come later. They have so much time. All the time.</p><p> </p><p>When they return, Nicolo lies down, facing outward, as a caravan guard should, guarding his love with his mind, his body, his attention, never to let him go again. And Yussuf is pressed against his back, lending him all his warmth and love.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And now I have to think of the next arc before I can get them to the fixed points in the story. Darn me for posting so rapidly,  before I figured it out...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Honesty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finally some very important and quite belated talking.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another short chapter, but after 3 days of struggle to get it right, I have no patience left. Please let me know, if I f...ed it up. It's hard, to keep the right direction without bending or breaking the characters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next night camp is set up by the sea, north of Damascus, back on the way to Europe… The immortals arrive early, but decide to call it a day, so they can figure some things out, while not being bone tired.</p><p> </p><p>As per the new routine, the camp is prepared incredibly fast, with their necessities laid out, a fire burning, and a pot on it. Nicolo as matter of course prepares the meal, with Yussuf fussing all around him. It is almost to much, but very understandably.</p><p> </p><p>He however reaches a breaking point, when Yussuf out of the blue mentions: “You are so very different now, nothing soft on you anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo turns all of a sudden, piercing through his love with a look so icy as the cold sea of his eyes. He grabs a stick from the pile, unsure if he will use it to write or to hit him with it. He decides the former, the burst of anger slowly cooling down. “I am a grown man. If you need something soft, get yourself a cat.”</p><p> </p><p>Finishing, he points down once more, a clear emphasis of both his words and his feelings. Yussuf looks dumbstruck and confused, so he wipes the words and adds instead: “I am unable to be everything you want me to be. And unwilling.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, he folds his arms, discarding the stick. It does nothing to clear his intention to Yussuf. He still looks like a hit puppy. The all too short statements are so very unhelpful. But there is no way, he can write down everything, that flows out of his heart, all the hurt and all the comfort, all the understanding and all the things lost in translation.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”, grumbled lowly, sums it up so well, and he sighs in frustration. After years of signing, he can barely understand anymore, how writing ever sufficed. They will need to learn the language immediately, or he will go insane.</p><p> </p><p>Huffing, he sits down, next to Yussuf, but not close. The distance is obvious. So is his upset.</p><p> </p><p>“What in Allah’s name do you mean?” Yussuf tries, not to get angry, Nicolo can see that, but this is difficult. Working out past mistakes usually is.</p><p> </p><p>So, he does not answer just yet. Ponders the best words, short but clear. Chews his lips looking down. The moment, his gaze rises again, he can see it. How distraught Yussuf got, after just this moment of confused dissent. He probably feels angry, but that’s just, because he won’t see, he is afraid of repeating the pattern of their past encounters. Of being drawn together by destiny and drift apart by misunderstanding.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is angry himself. But not at Yussuf. Or the other immortals. He still hurt, but he isn’t angry at them. He is angry at himself. Angry, he can’t find the right words. Angry, he can’t shed a past, that slowly poisons its way back into his life each time, he gains his footing and comes back to haunt him, when it is least convenient.</p><p> </p><p>He is angry and he is sad, and he knows by now, both feelings are awfully bad guides. So he closes his eyes, seeking a way, where he is most likely to find it.</p><p> </p><p>It takes only a few deep breaths to calm down, to return to the outside world, smiling encouragingly and signing: “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Writing: “I don’t want to leave. I want you to understand.” In an afterthought he adds: “So you can explain it to…”</p><p> </p><p>Oh… he does not know, how to spell their names… And it’s pretty awkward. The uneasy pause makes Yussuf grin and shake his head softly. He got it. That one thing, at least. Nicolo smiles helplessly fond, though close to tears of frustration.</p><p> </p><p>“I hate writing”, he scribbles next, much faster and less accurate. “Too slow.” Throws another stick to the ground with mimicked disgust.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Yussuf laugh out and dissolves the remaining tension. Not the problem itself though. And either way to address it, needs more patience, than Nicolo is willing to offer anymore…</p><p> </p><p>Slowly writing it out, until one of the other immortals, Yussuf, preferably, gets the message, makes his skin crawl. And waiting weeks until they have even close to enough grasp of the signing is equally unrewarding.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf draws closer, takes Nicolo’s hand, offering less suffocating closeness and more comfort than before. “I might… work it out… and you… give me hints?” he looks as unsure, as off-balance as Nicolo feels, but willing. Nicolo nods, smiling, nearing him just a few inches of ground as peace-offering.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>They play the guessing games for days, and at times it is even more frustrating, than writing, so Nicolo sometimes even unmounts, only to write out a point in the right direction. But it helps. Andromache sometimes participates, part helpful, part teasing. And she is best at figuring out the small expressions on Nicolo’s face. Long nights by a dying fire saw to that. But mostly, she lets Yussuf handle it. Quynh on the other hand, doesn’t play at all. Strangely, this is good news, for when, after an hour of beating around the bush on a more complicated part, everyone is frustrated, she can lighten the mood with a little singsong or joke. A pat on the back, a smile, small shows of affection, far from the overwhelming and sometimes too intense longing, Yussuf can barely suppress to keep Nicolo’s sanity, until he gets used to being touched again, another painfully slow process… What a decade of loneliness does to you… Obviously.</p><p> </p><p>After a day or two, they get there. It is not precisely, how Nicolo would put it, but they start to understand, that is was their expectance for Nicolo to fit in seamlessly that drove him away. He can’t just be another part of the puzzle, creating an unimpaired image, when he doesn’t know how. And worse… to think, he might be the only one to change, to adjust. Their company might have had difficulties, when they included Yussuf, a few hundred years back, but this was different, it seems.</p><p> </p><p>He was… older… more secure, when they met him. And the resulting frustration, if anything went wrong wouldn’t be penned up for days at end, because, once Yussuf got mad, he would just shout it out for the world to know.</p><p> </p><p>It’s all different with Nicolo. Caring for his own, being strong, has taught him, he is not damaged, he is not a charity case. But he <em>is</em> different. Calm, until he isn’t. Necessarily silent. Fire imprisoned in the cold greenish blue of his eyes. Passion only expressed by a smile or a gesture. Patience, where Yussuf is all temper.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to figure him out, harder even to stop and think, taking him into account, knowing that he won’t immediately protest, when something goes wrong. They have work to do. All of them.</p><p> </p><p>Quynh says that much, when the three immortals start learning the sign language, Nicolo teaches them, to make it easier. They deal with basics, while they travel, pointing at things and make Nicolo show their sign equivalent. Concepts, verbs, feelings… that is the hard part, and takes them weeks, to figure them out, although it is so much easier to watch Nicolo’s signs, than to identify wacky scribblings in sand or ashes at their camps sites. It will be better, once they arrive at Constantinople, their current operation site, where a house is waiting, including all the little perks of civilization, such as a bathtub, candles, a warm hearth.</p><p> </p><p>But they are unwilling to wait until then, they have already wasted to much time, hurting one of their own, ignoring his distress.</p><p> </p><p>So, when they sit by the campfire in the evenings, no more than a few days from their destination, for the first time in their shared history, they can really share stories. Nicolo is excluded no more. They still only understand about half of what he signs, as an optimistic estimate, but help each other out on the signs, they forgot and improve daily. It is a bliss and it is contagious. Laughter comes easy, when you are happy, no matter the hardship, still weighing you down. They have never seen him offer smiles that freely, never seen them touch his eyes so completely, making him relax into Yussuf’s presence, sometimes even his body, every day a little more.</p><p> </p><p>They feel so comfortable by now, one day, Quynh proudly announces: “Look, how our little bird finally grew wings… and flies beautifully.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s is a compliment, full of fond appreciation. And she cannot know, how could she… But the words strike Nicolo as if impaled on a sword. The almost physical pain makes him flinch, breathing heavily, suddenly anxious, checking the surroundings for an escape route.</p><p> </p><p>He catches himself, before Quynh or Andromache notice, but he can’t fool Yussuf, who got knocked aside suddenly, because Nicolo was leaning to his side.</p><p> </p><p>They share a look, then Yussuf excuses them both for a walk and helps Nicolo to his feet. They don’t talk. They just… go… for a long time and only stop, when all tension seeped down into the earth through Nicolo’s feet. Then they stay, close, closer, than he ever let it happen, during their waking time, since the first evening of reconciliation. Accepts the comfort of a slow, loving embrace, until he feels able to explain. And the light of the moon is enough, now he does not need to write it all out anymore. “Someone called me that… back then… little bird.”</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s too cold for what little clothing he wears, but it is, what the condottiere expected him to wear for the evening, entertaining a few choice guests, he wishes to impress with his cultivated taste and good-looking servants. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Nicolo knows, what it can mean, if a deal is made, and if he is part of that deal. Or if Signore Airoldi wants to secure leverage on his business partners. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s a question of loyalty to ensure, everything goes to plan. He needs to contribute to the success of this mercenaries’ company as everybody else. Not today though, today he is all his patron’s.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Soon as the guests leave, he is summoned to the condottiere’s seat, standing by his side, the fighter’s hands trailing the bare skin he prefers to be cool. “Now, my little bird, still in no mood for singing?”, he mocks, as per usual and makes him kneel. “If so, I have other uses for that exciting lips of yours.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The signori’s wellbeing is in consequence his wellbeing… No matter how much he hates the mocking. Or the name. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time, Nicolo tells his lover of one of his memories. It’s the first time, his judgment of the situation isn’t overshadowed by guilt or shame. He is however thankful, that Yussuf is still to new to the signing to grasp all the unsavory details. He is put off-balance enough by the pure impact of realization. What, up until now, was only a vague suspicion, is now reality, a giant, suffocating presence of evil, vilifying their company, threatening to crush the very existence of their love.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo knows, it’s far from that severe. He has learned to deal with it, a long time ago, or it would never have happened in the first place. But Yussuf does not know that and dismisses all attempts to comfort him guiltily.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this, why you won’t let me touch you anymore?”, he asks, after several failed starts, hurt painfully vibrating in every word. Nicolo shakes his head, smiles, cups both of his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, that starts gently, but heats up soon, until he breathlessly chases the fleeting pleasure of his lover’s tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll let you… give me time.” He signs, getting even closer. “I need to re-accustom myself to you.” It is a complicated thing, to say, a difficult thing to understand, no matter in what language. But just now, he can stand everything. With releasing the story… letting it out, he feels it losing its grip onto him.</p><p> </p><p>It leaves him light-weighted, almost floating, his mind at peace, where there was only dread before.</p><p> </p><p>His serene smile helps put Yussuf gradually relax again, and so do even more, increasingly heated kisses. “I’d take care of you…”, he signs and then, before Yussuf can disagree: “But that is not, what you want, no?”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf shakes his head gravely, distances himself a bit, just to make sure. “Well then… I am at your mercy…” With that, he leans into his lover, lets his arms support him, so he can expose his throat to his tentative fingers and lips.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf starts exploring very reluctantly, but picks up pace, once he takes notice of the small pleasured noises, that escape Nicolo’s lips. Not quite a moan, but more than trembling breaths and gasps. He knows him well enough to realize, Nicolo can’t fake that for his peace of mind.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And again... I need to figure out,  what is next, as yet, only some vague ideas. Might take a few days again.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Thirst and drowning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A rescue mission goes wrong.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bit of a filler I fear. I am a little annoyed about my inspiration constantly drifting somewhere else, because I struggle to get to the right point. Still hopeful,  this works...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Constantinople is nothing like Nicolo imagined it. The beauty and might, it was famed for once, is faded and stained, and after the intense activity off all those strong trading cities, he has experienced, Damascus, Bukhara, Baghdad, it feels almost empty. Big, yes, but scarcely populated in comparison. A great past is left to fall into crumbling ruins, with the decline of the Byzantine empire.</p><p> </p><p>It is a comfortable decadence for the most part, though the people seem strange. The knowledge of their great past seems to overshadow their rather moderate present. The only thing, that can ever disrupt the self-imposed content is the fear of an enemy, they cannot hope to defeat by any means, should he ever decide to go at them directly.</p><p> </p><p>The ottomans are rising in the shadow of Byzant’s decline and are already feasting on the remnants of the fallen giant, sowing fear and laying waste to whole areas from Asia minor to the Balkan kingdoms.</p><p> </p><p>This, as Andromache explains, so he learns to understand the bigger picture, is also the reason, that for now, they remain here, or rather, return frequently. There is no better place in the world to find out, where their help will be needed. Sometimes the rumors are incomplete or misleading, sometimes the need to back down, as even four determined immortals can only do so much, if they do not wish to expose themselves.</p><p> </p><p>But mostly, they get along, warning innocent farmers and villagers of upcoming armies, fighting raid parties, they can take on, rescue prisoners of war, destined for terrible fates, once they arrive. There are small boys among them, some no older than ten, and the ottoman officers accompanying them, swear to their God, the are meant for something better, but the boys definitely prefer to go home to their families, where they are welcomed back with tears and embraces.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is at peace with either mission. There is no more bitterness in his fighting, but no more innocence either. Sometimes he can feel Yussuf’s gaze on him, caught between pride and worry. And he understands. Although he gives mercy, where possible, he does not blame himself any more for the deaths, he causes, than he would blame the wind or the rain. In battle he is only a weapon, wielded by destiny and willingly complying.</p><p> </p><p>He is calm, he is alert and he is terrifying, if only by the absence of any usual emotion. No anger, no rage, nor greed or lust clouds his judgement. The very thing, that he once feared, losing himself in the battle, is now his biggest advantage, something that makes him Yussuf’s and in time even Andromache’s and Quynh’s equal, for sometimes, he can do things, they can’t.</p><p> </p><p>He seldom wavers or falters or flinches anymore, as cold in battle, as he is warm outside. And no matter how easily communication flows now, he can’t explain. After battles, he signs to Yussuf, he needs not fear, everything is fine. But see him turn into a shadow of death, where Andromache is the goddess of war herself, must surely weigh down on his lover’s peace of mind.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo tries to make up for it, in other ways, but when at first, he was the one, going slow, too overwhelmed by all that feeling, now it is Yussuf. Always holding back, always reluctant. Fearful to overstep boundaries, Nicolo no longer has.</p><p> </p><p>It is infuriating as it is sweet. And he can hardly be mad at him for being considerate, can he? And still, and still. It is a special kind of torture to get back from battle, feeling all the emotions, he does not allow himself during it, heading to the bathhouse, having the perfect view of all that by any right belongs to him. And then not touching. Not caressing, kissing, licking.</p><p> </p><p>Those are the days, when he gets dangerous. When brawls happen and spiral out of control. When he gets mugged, or rather, when the muggers die trying. He doesn’t even do it on purpose. But his frustration calls for theirs and the more gruesome parts of destiny unfold, breaking bones and hitting heads.</p><p> </p><p>It goes unmentioned, that under the circumstances, they never stay in the city very long.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>It is impossible to say, what is more blindingly light. The sun itself or the white rocks that lay bare on the cliffs, wherever the scarce vegetation is unwilling to cover them. The land is dry and surprisingly hostile, for this is supposed to be Mediterranean Europe and no longer the harsh desert of the Arabic peninsula. Shouldn’t it be a little more forthcoming in terms of food or water?</p><p> </p><p>One can only guess, what keeps the small villages scattered all over the area alive, for olive trees and citrus trees seem barely enough to provide… Maybe the answer lies in the constant presence of boats, expertly pulled above he shoreline, waiting to be used.</p><p> </p><p>It is a good thing, the four of them came here with ample supplies, when they left Constantinople. It’s less fortunate that they left too early for the anticipated ottoman attack on this area. They have been waiting for weeks now, and nothing seems to happen. It gives them ample time to talk, to train, to learn of the area. And to run out of supplies.</p><p> </p><p>By now, the situation is not yet disastrous but surely bad enough. They barely get by and they don’t know, how long they will have to wait. It keeps the mood low, builds up tension, even between lovers, keeps them on their toes.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf and Quynh have shouting match, over some stupid reason, nobody will later remember, Nicolo watches, distanced, tense, but not showing it, pretending not to be bothered, as always. Andromache goes for a hunt, alone, before she can snap too.</p><p> </p><p>Her return, with news of an army’s arrival comes as a relief. Suddenly the tension is gone, replaced by the fever of the hunt.</p><p> </p><p>Under normal circumstances, with enough food and water, less impatient, they wouldn’t take on such a big force. Or they would at least try to divide it first.</p><p> </p><p>But they have too, and they can’t do anything about it, for it is not the ottomans, they are facing, it is pirates, out for slaves with blue eyes and soft, light hair, highly priced in the north African trade cities.</p><p> </p><p>Those waste no time and show no mercy, they will all but wipe the villages, they enter, from the map, taking everyone worthwhile and leave the rest to die of hunger, thirst, exposure or broken heart.</p><p> </p><p>There is no way, they will let that happen, they decide, each on his own secretly eyeing Nicolo, as if by now, he wasn’t perceptive enough to notice. He doesn’t call it out though. As long, as they don’t act by it, he can handle a little concern.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The area is in their favor, if they are smart about it, they realize. The village the pirates are raiding lies in a remote bay, surrounded to all sides but the sea by steep cliffs, not easily scaled but for the few paths leading through. They decide on Andromache and Yussuf climbing down to act directly on the ground, with Quynh and Nicolo protecting them from above, until they run out of arrows.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is farther away, he has a lower shot frequency but better distance precision, as they only recently realized. Besides, Quynh can hide more easily, when something goes south. Nicolo will have to make a run, if necessary. All of them still expect to die, maybe multiple times, but it can’t be helped, they need to act, before the pirates can put the rounded up villagers, or at least everyone young enough to be of interest, on their ships and get away.</p><p> </p><p>So they get started. Andromache lowers herself down the ridges, fast and efficient, jumps, once she can be sure to make it, the labrys safely strapped to her back. Yussuf follows, just as secure, just as elegant. Nicolo and Quynh take their places, watching them pace towards the harbor, ready to shoot as soon as the pirates are alarmed.</p><p> </p><p>Everything goes according to plan for a time. Deadly arrows fell man after man after man, deadly blades mow through bodies, stirring the fight away from defenseless innocents. But it never works like that. After too much luck, life always recoils.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache is cut down, and though she is fast, waking up easier than any of them, with the experience of thousands of deaths, she can’t before her guardian dies too. Their bodies surrounded, trampled, damaged. Quynh can’t fire arrows nearly fast enough to keep them safe, just long enough, no matter how fast she draws her bow. Arrow after arrow after arrow rain down in vain, the wounds amassing until there is no more chance, they will make it on their own.</p><p> </p><p>Too many men, too little time. Nicolo and Quynh share a frantic look, and then, he just jumps, breaking his foot on landing, running, before it is fully healed, dancing towards the dead bodies, ready to be alive, shielded by Quynh’s efforts, buying time, buying time.</p><p> </p><p>Alone, alone. He has never been alone in this, a roaring mass of bodies around them, screaming murder, bleeding, dying, fighting, killing. He pulls the fight away from the other immortals, he knows, he cannot stand much longer, feels his muscles tiring, his breath shallow and fast. They cut him down, yet he is to valuable to be killed off, to beautiful, to rare. They pull him down, with a length of rope, try to bind him, try to… no, he can’t be caught again, imprisoned again, he’d rather die. With bound limbs, pulled towards the ocean, pulled towards the ships, ready for departure, he continues fighting, bleeding, cursing, dancing… he falls, splashes into the water… half drowns… they pull him up… again… this time he must have died, but he fights… Please wake up, before they get me, he prays, already incoherent, but he bites, and pulls the men holding him down, to die with him under the waves. Blood is in the water, it is not his, for there is also blood on his bound hands, on his face, on his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>His body is floating in the water, face down, when they fish him out… there is no intact strip of cloth on him, all is ripped up and drenched in blood and torn. Yussuf loosens the rope, embraces him, holds him for a very, very long time. It must have been long, this time, until he woke up. He feels so tired from dying and reviving, from fighting and losing. “Have we won?”, he signs, unable to rise on his own and have a look.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache’s nod is as tired as his question, really doesn’t look like victory at all. “The villagers got away… as did some of the pirates. Still counts as a win, I’d say.” Now Nicolo nods and tries to free himself from Yussuf’s arms, just enough to stand up, staggering awkwardly. His love tries to stabilize him, but is just as weak… just as exhausted.</p><p> </p><p>“We will go just as far away, as you three can manage”, Quynh commands and helps them. “I will take care.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, it is settled. They manage to get away, before the villagers return and notice their survival, no harm done there.</p><p> </p><p>And then, they rest, as close together, as they fought and died.</p><p> </p><p>So, no nightmare pain Nicolo this time. Standing his ground on his own decision, even when dying, kills fears, before they can even rise. Or maybe it is the knowledge, he will not be judged by his weaknesses anymore, but by his actions. Or, just maybe, it is the strong arm around him, interlacing fingers with his own, reminding him, they are in this together.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bit of foreshadowing anyone?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Balance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A long needed pause. And some close examination of the human body...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay, the flow is back.</p><p>Big warning though, this basically smut... if you don't like that, ignore the second part completely. Makes the chapter very short though...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All said and done, back safe in Constantinople, or rather, as safe as the city can get anymore, Nicolo sits Yussuf down, alone. He has made sure, they had a long walk, so both of them have their tension drained out of them, then settles for a view over the extensive harbor, far to big for the current state of the city and therefore, less than busy.</p><p> </p><p>“Time for a talk”, he lets his lover know and looks at him earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>“Again?” is the answer, torn between irritation, that suddenly talking got so important between them and no small joy, he has earned the trust.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo nods, sitting down on the ground, opposite to where Yussuf is perched on some pile of ropes. “Since I told you about… the past, you have been afraid.”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf’s eyes take flight over the water, follow the moves of the gulls, refuse to focus on him. He takes his sweet time, until he answers, but Nicolo is patient. “I… had a lot of bad things in my life. I fought in wars, I was wounded, I was killed. I lost lover’s and friends, family. But I never fell so deep. Never lost my…”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can see, he is searching for a word, a phrase, that won’t be hurtful, and signs… supplying what words do not exist in the sign language for being too insubstantial by little scribbles. “When I was younger, I despised myself. As most men would have. I… have made my peace. Dignity does not fill your belly. Dignity does not warm you, when you are cold. I had none, Yussuf. I had no dignity.”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf’s jaw clenches, his eyes grow cold. “How can you say that. How can you think so low of yourself?” Folding his arms completes his posture of rejection.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t.” He draws closer, resting his hands on Yussuf’s knees, despite his flinching, using the leverage to plant a kiss onto his not yet willing lips, before lowering himself back, freeing his hands again. “I am that boy no more. And when I see him now, I only feel pity, not disgust or anger. He deserved better. He was very alone.”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf catches them, disrupting Nicolo’s explanation, pulling him closer. “I’d like to… be with you…. But whenever I close my eyes, I imagine…” His fingers softly follow the line of Nicolo’s body as far down as he can go without tumbling over without ever touching him… It gives Nicolo goosebumps and makes his breath hitch. “How it must have hurt, how you must have felt.” Nicolo tenses, sending the totally wrong message, for Yussuf releases him and leans back, just as aroused and frustrated as him. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to remind you. I…” The sigh and the twitch of his lips sum up so many words, he cannot say.</p><p> </p><p>Obviously, having words is not necessarily superior, you can feel just as speechless. Nicolo rises to his knees, bringing them to almost equal height. “You don’t. This is completely different.” He wouldn’t dare try to explain, how exactly, the signing is spectacularly unfit for explaining complicated feelings. On the other hand, … So is about every language he knows of. The important things are obscured by meaningless phrases, that do not really express, what is needed to be said. Instead he leans in, softly joining their foreheads. Smiling encouragingly.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf grumbles a bit, dissatisfied, but willing to listen.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you trust me?” The signs are now barely visible, shadowed by both their bodies and Nicolo doubts, that Yussuf is already good enough to just feel, what they might mean…</p><p> </p><p>The nod comes anyways. “With all my heart.”</p><p> </p><p>It leaves Nicolo breathlessly grinning, filled with inexplicable joy, he cannot express in its suddenness. He leans in, just a bit more, his lips brushing against the lobe of his lover’s ear. Breathing, where he wished, he could whisper, so intimately, so soft.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers tangle into the hair at the back of Nicolo’s head and tense, as Yussuf leans back, exhaling, fighting for control, for constraint, for composure.</p><p> </p><p>No… let go… Please… let go. The begging is not even a look… It fails to help. He can feel Yussuf pull away and falls back to his previous position, sitting back and watching. “Please, let me show you. Just… Listen to my body. It tells you all you need to know.” Then, his hands lie bare and speechless in his lap. Hopeless too, Yussuf looks so withdrawn. Looks away. Again. It’s killing him.</p><p> </p><p>The older man thinks, makes up his mind, not rushing, no matter, how hard it is on Nicolo, rises then, takes one of his hands, and pulls him up…</p><p> </p><p>“Damn it. Come on…”</p><p> </p><p>With that, he starts to move, fast, urgent, dragging Nicolo along.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>There is no way, this is real. Nicolo knows, he must be dreaming, for no reality in his life came ever even close to… this…</p><p> </p><p>Watching Yussuf undress in full daylight in their room of the house, they rent in the better quarters of Constantinople. The wooden window covers wide open, the skin bathed in pleasant sea wind. Just a hint of sweat in the air, and the view, oh, the view.</p><p> </p><p>Firm, sinewy muscle, clean-cut and warm, dark hair on head, chin, chest, a thin line hiding its beginning down in the loincloth and then, not hiding at all.</p><p> </p><p>From time to time he needs to close his eyes and open them again, just too make sure, this is still happening. This… and all the time in the world to savor it. Or not…</p><p> </p><p>The naked body, he just admired, comes close now. “Won’t join?” An eyebrow twitches suggestive and makes him grin sheepishly. Of course, … what a willful neglect… Slowly, so slowly he shrugs out of his shirt, enjoying the longing gaze on his <em>own</em> body just as much. He rolls his shoulders, just for the show and is duly rewarded with an appreciative hiss. Shoes and trousers go next, exposing him just as much as his lover, whose hands now glide up along his sides, caressing thighs, hipbones, ribs with astonishment. “God… you are unbelievable.”</p><p> </p><p>His own hands glide along Yussuf’s body, almost too softly, communicating the same amazed appreciation, find his lover’s neck, pull him into a kiss.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to play slow, so Yussuf can get used to it first, but overestimates his own patience, chasing eagerly after his tongue. For a moment, their teeth clash, in a mock-battle for dominance, before they find a rhythm fitting them both, moaning into each other’s mouth. They are out of air all too soon.</p><p> </p><p>But removing himself just a tiny bit gives Nicolo so much to see, so much to do. He lowers his lips to Yussuf’s pulse, feeling every beat of the rushed heart, every breath sucked in. His tongue seeks out the flittering feeling, and he can’t help smiling, swallowing, blowing soft puffs of warm air onto the darkened skin, while he traces the lines of Yussuf’s muscles. It would be easy to get to his knees, offer his mouth, his lips, a sacrifice, he is more than willing to make, for it is far from a sacrifice at all to close his lips around his lovers cock, licking him, tasting him, feeling the weight both of him and his arousal. But Yussuf won’t let him, this time, aiming for more a more equal exchange.</p><p> </p><p>Shoves him down onto the simple bed they share, follows, with a playful growl, showering kisses all over his stomach and chest, until he gasps and shivers with smiling eyes and chewed lips. This beard scratches, only just shy of uncomfortable. Perfect, in this very moment.</p><p> </p><p>“There were times, when I thought, the only way to make you enjoy that, would be, to tie you up, so you couldn’t try something…”, Yussuf jokes and has no idea, what it means to him, until he watches his face, wide-eyed, pupils blown. God… and here he was, and thought it couldn’t get any more tempting… The smile is gone and so is his cockiness. He didn’t mean to…</p><p> </p><p>But hell, if there is one person in the world, who should know, it’s the man lying at his side. A man, he trusts, even with that… even when… But Yussuf has other plans. “Later”, he promises. “Later.” And makes Nicolo going even more tense with anticipation. “I love you…” Repeats it all over, whispering it into Nicolo’s burning skin, placing himself on top of Nicolo, covering each part of him equally, skin on skin, their bodies melting into each other, under the warm breeze coming from the harbor, full of the same salt, their skins taste of, when they exchange kisses. The same scent, that transpired, where they rub against each other, earthy and warm and familiar.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too…”, his body sings, and he mouths it soundless into his lover’s skin, followed by a hot, desperate moan, so deep in his throat, he can barely feel it. He can feel his heart beating in his ears, when he feels Yussufs hand on his bottom, carefully spreading him, searching. A warm feeling starts there, under the gentle fingers and pours into his stomach, until he can’t do anything but lay back, feel and breathe…</p><p> </p><p>Lazily he watches, as Yussuf bows down, preparing him, helped by nothing but his luxurious, relaxed smile, and a hitched wince, here and there. It is enough… It’s all the encouragement he needs. Trust is a wonderful thing, he thinks, trying to keep track, loosing it completely, when Yussuf’s body is back on top of him, kneeling between his legs, lifting… oh…</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo has difficulties focusing on anything but the feeling, but manages to lift himself up, just a bit… just enough. Please… Please… he pleads, please… and doesn’t know what for anymore, until it’s handed to him… the feeling of Yussuf’s cock against him, slowly invading him, filling him. His head falls back even further, and he groans. This is so incredibly perfect.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf pushes and pulls out again in a slow, steady rhythm, until Nicolo gets it together enough to look at him. In his lover’s face, there is the same intensity, the same astonishment, the same wonder.</p><p> </p><p>And the strength to answer. Looking in dark brown eyes, he starts to push back, clenching his hands into Yussuf’s arms and using them as leverage.</p><p> </p><p>As the pace speeds up, slowly but surely, the most beautiful Arabic tumbles from Yussuf’s lips. Moaned, hissed, sighed, poetic as any love poem ever written, though indefinitely more personal. His hands and tongue sign the same into Yussuf’s flesh all over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” Repetition dissolves the signs into scraps, without ever changing the meaning.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to keep track of time, it isn’t important either… only the sweat burn in his muscles, the steady pull of Yussuf's hands on his cock, tell of its passing, that and the building pressure in his core, growing with every time, their bodies collide, until there is no more restraint left.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he feels Yussuf’s climax, deep in him and can’t help it anymore…</p><p> </p><p>With a small scream he comes between their bodies, loosing all strength to arch is body, falling into the sheets, spent.</p><p> </p><p>A last, searing kiss shared, then… sweet darkness, born from lustful exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>It probably isn’t coincidence, Quynh and Andromache are very noisy on their return from the market, seeking rumors and information even more thoroughly than supplies. Heaven… the whole room still smells of spent passion…</p><p> </p><p>Drowsily he gets up and cleans himself at the water basin, dresses and then wakes up Yussuf, if just to inform him, he will go prepare their meal. The other barely even wakes up… still caught in the lingering memory of their past hours.</p><p> </p><p>And probably it is just imagination, when the looks the women give him when he passes by on his way to the hearth, resemble those of smirking cats.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, the finally got it right, but that is no reason to tease him like that, he thinks, just as they burst out laughing, with Quynh hugging him and whispering fondly: “Congratulations, dear, even someone as dense as Yussuf can resist you only so long…”</p><p> </p><p>With a wink she turns back to Andromache, giving her a heated kiss, probably just, to wind him up again. As if that is needed…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Destruction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The fall of Constantinople. From frog perspective.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Short again, but intense. I am shaken... didn't think, it would turn out like that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With his heart beating like a war drum, Nicolo can’t help but futilely ask himself, what was the worst mistake, they made.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was almost missing the attack on Constantinople, after they have been waiting for years. Never straying too far, so they could still be there in time to safe those they grew fond of. The baker who gifts baklava to Andromache, once and again, because then her eyes smile like those of a child. The family of the cobbler, who rents them their house, with a new child each year, each more loved and more lovely then the last. The old man who tells tales at the marketplace, thankful for each apple, roll of bread or coin placed in his lap. Or the chatty midwifes, that stop by from time to time, throwing suspiciously thorough looks to both Andromache’s and Quynh’s middle.</p><p> </p><p>Or worse… being on time, but gravely underestimating, what is to come. It was stupid. Even Nicolo can see that. Arriving at the city, barely beating an army of uncountable vastness, thousands and thousands of men, each more than willing to make the city walls fall. Ships, trying to block the harbor, people, swarming the area like overgrown aggressive ants, caring for big, evil looking tubes of bronze, the likes of which Nicolo has never seen before.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of breaking the siege or even just slipping a way from under its grasp is in vain. Not even a mouse could escape the city now, even less so people, families, children, frail elders. So, they do, what they always do. Prepare for the worst and do what they can.</p><p> </p><p>“The ottomans are not the enemy!”, Andromache reminds all four of them, when they are alone in their quarters, awaiting the first attacks. “Death is. Violence. We don’t fight for the city; we don’t fight for the kingdom. We only fight to keep the people around us safe. Clear?”</p><p> </p><p>They all nod in various states of nervousness and determination. “We are in Allah’s Hand”, Yussuf sighs, as Nicolo hides his urge to make the sign of the cross, because he hasn’t done that in years. Not being an obvious Christian has become second nature.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>They decide not to join the soldiers defending the city. It won’t help the people, they care for, as it is only a question of time, until the city is lost. Furthermore, fighting at the walls, defending the city gates or the harbor gets one killed. They can’t risk that now, when they are unable to just leave. So, they stay, were they are and lend a hand on smaller tasks. Preparing tubs of water in case of fires. Getting food for those who can’t. Repairing and strengthening walls, once the canon bombardment starts.</p><p> </p><p>Soon, it becomes obvious that the vilest, the most powerful enemy, they face, is time. The siege goes on day after day, without much of a change for those not directly involved in the battle. They can do nothing but wait and wait and wait some more. It makes them jumpy and easily irritated. It makes them lash out against each other and clench their fists and bite their tongues. It almost makes them enemy of themselves. Until.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Low thunder has been shaking the city walls since the morning. Again and again. Even the ground below them vibrates in unholy fear. The people around them are huddling in their houses, not even looking in the direction of the walls anymore, afraid to summon fate by just thinking of it. The walls will fall. Not today, not tomorrow. But constant attack from the canons leave no room for hope.</p><p> </p><p>It died a slow and painful death, this fleeting feeling. When the Venetians and Genoese came, just in time, bringing soldiers, ships, provisions, the city was enlightened. When they fought of the Muslim ships, it flared. When a final row of ships arrived, bringing food, it lifted its head softly.</p><p> </p><p>Now, it lies on the ground, unable to lift anyone. It saw the golden horn conquered, rendering the harbor useless, it saw the walls collapse here and there, barely restored overnight by feverish work. It saw the hunger and the tiredness, hanging over the heads of the soldiers, the families, the sick.</p><p> </p><p>It could be worse, the emperor Constantine rationed food soon enough for everyone to survive. But the sword hangs over all their heads and the booming of canons reminds them, every waking moment. Until.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>The sudden silence sends shiver down Nicolo’s spine each time. When the canons fall silent, it can mean many things. It can mean one thing. Soon, as the silence transpires, he climbs, up, up to higher ground, to the viewpoint, where he can check what is going on outside the walls. Mostly, Quynh follows, she wants to see for herself. The others trust their archer eyes. Each time, they first check the position of the ottoman army. Are they relaxed? Are they arranged for attack? Each time, they also check the canons. Are they still positioned? Or do they need repair? And each time the check the walls. Are the gates intact? Are there breaches? Sometimes, it’s just false alarm, sometimes, there is an attack, which is deflected. They never alarm the quarter. It’s not necessary. Until.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>The screams come first. They arrive even before the sounds of fight, the clattering of weapons, the stomping of soldiers’ boots. They are the last warning, everyone gets. The women and children are hidden away, in cellars and attics, on roofs and in hidden corners. The men are not. They stay to hide the doors, the falling boards, the entries. They stay to defend their shops, their homes, their possession. So are the immortals. They keep low profile and stay together, but they are ready to fight. And then, the soldiers are there. Hundreds, systematically checking each house, killing whoever dares challenge them, ripping apart furniture, shops, whole houses in search of valuables.</p><p> </p><p>The first still seem to have faces. but the more appear, the further they move, the more they just appear to merge into a multiheaded monster, screaming bloody murder and wreaking havoc in the narrow streets of the living quarters. Nicol has never seen the likes. Even his fight at the walls of Ðong Ðo had none of this horrifying intensity. It seems, the walls of the city, encasing the monster, only cater to its abominable tastes and dire means. Soon enough even the immortals fight for their bare life, as enemies appear faster than they can be slain. One after the other, neighbors, acquaintances, friends fall and disappear, until nothing remains but a smear of read and brown on the pavement and a disfigured heap of flesh.</p><p> </p><p>None of them wants to end like that. None of them wants to see the others end like that… But there seems to be no way out. Whenever they fall back, soon enough they are faced with another wall of faces, screaming and threatening and killing. Wherever they turn, war is already there and feeds on everything alive. It is nothing less than hell opening its gates and letting out all the damned souls to roam free and take their anger out on the living until nothing remains. Not even immortals. Not even them.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen!” Andromache screams against the uproar of battle, to her loved ones. “You fall down, you stay down!” Then she leads them to a well-known dead end, where a local butcher kept his chickens, until they were all eaten.</p><p> </p><p>There, they have their last stand. Quynh goes down first, bare of any remaining arrow and less prone with close range weapons. Its good, for they can shield her delicate body with theirs, keep her out of sight against the unspeakable. Yussuf goes next, by mere accident. It’s the turning point, as it distracts Nicolo long enough to receive his final blow. He does not know how long Andromache remains. All he knows, is, he comes back and goes back under immediately, killed again and again, by crushing feet, blood loss, weapons shoved into his already dead body for what resembles fun for the ever-hungry beast.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone still with me?” Andromache’s voice is hoarse and broken, still too weak to be reassuring. But who are they to point that out? Her, still standing, is proof enough, she will be alright. If any of them had stopped healing, they wouldn’t even be identifiable anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Quynh shakes her head, still drowsy and grumbles: “Present… more or less…” She is wavering, needs to hold on to the wall, but she will get there. Parts of her face are still open, only slowly knitting together after all the damage she had to heal. For now, her face is far from the exotic beauty they are used to.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf moves rigidly to her side, grunting from the lingering pain and helps her stay upright, confirming: “I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can’t stand up yet. Something must still be seriously broken, for he can feel his legs, but only as if they were on fire. He groans painedly, until they pull him upright and shake the metal fragments in his spine loose. Only then his body manages to spit them out, almost disgustedly. Yussuf holds him in his arms, until it’s done, never saying a single word.</p><p> </p><p>That is, why he can hear Nicolo whisper: “Our father in heaven, hallowed be your name…” The rest of the prayer fades away into nothingness, as he loses track, helplessly horrified by the ordeal. As all of them are, no matter, what they pretend “Hallowed be your… name…”</p><p> </p><p>“Your kingdom come…”, he adds, carefully whispering, urging Nicolo along.</p><p> </p><p>“Your will be done…” The familiar words sooth and calm. And as the prayer, so essential to Nicolo unfolds, as Yussuf shares it with him, despite the obvious mismatch of religion, he comes back to himself. They both do.</p><p> </p><p>“On earth as it is in heaven.” The whisper grows louder, more urgent. Nicolo can feel the underlying current. Come, Nicolo, give me something. Be strong, don’t fall into the darkness. Their eyes meet, shortly, then he waits.</p><p> </p><p>“Give us this day our daily bread…” He swallows, spitting the words, louder, stronger, with them, the clotted blood that still lingers in his throat and makes him gag.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache watches seemingly uninvolved, but all too attentive, Quynh joins: “And forgive us our debts…”, smiling, still quite lopsided, the sound of her voice uneven and raw.</p><p> </p><p>“As we have forgiven our debtors.” Nicolo coughs, standing on his own feet now, though shakily. “And do not bring us into temptation, but rescue us from evil…” He straitens up and finishes, barely more than breathing: “Amen”, for this bloodshed is all but that…. A rescue from evil. He clenches his fists, looks around, shivering from unspent anger, infinite grief. “We leave.” Two words. Simple… Normal. A command, Andromache would normally give. But this isn’t normal. This isn’t even sane. It’s anything but.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache does not object.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t go looking for their street, their home, their friends. They are dead. And if they aren’t there is nothing to be done for them. They go look for their weapons. And once, they find them, or rather anything like them, they turn their backs on the city, not to return for a very, very long time.</p><p> </p><p>Constantinople is dead, dying with them, but not rising the same, never the same.</p><p> </p><p>No one bothers them, when they had north, crossing the Bosporus in some half broken down boat, no one cares. The victorious are drunken from violence and death and blood, the beaten, if alive, care for nothing but themselves.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I live by your comments,  you are the best motivation, one could ask for.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Equilibrium of terror</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The immortals try to avoid meeting the ottoman empire again. And in turn encounter one of its fiercest enemies.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My apologies for being late, it was weekend again... But I hope this chapter makes up for it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Heading into a warzone is nothing new for the immortals. Deserted villages, the tiny, almost picturesque houses wearing all signs of brutal pillage and plunder. Whole lanes cut through forests and fields alike by the sheer mass of men and horses going through. Harvest rotting on the stalk. Small towns, frozen in fear by only four armed warriors passing through.</p><p> </p><p>And everywhere the whisper. The ottomans will come. Save us from the ottomans. They take our lives, our possessions, our kids. The Wallachians will come, they will burn us alive or stake our still writhing bodies. The Hungarian will come, the Szekler, who carry the blood of the Huns and their cruelty.</p><p> </p><p>It depends on whom you ask, though sometimes it makes barely any difference. The only constant being people turn to their god, Christ or Allah, in their desperation.</p><p> </p><p>It was easy to place their anger and hatred, when they left Constantinople. It isn’t now. No matter how the hated the ottoman army, no one deserves the fate, they can now see before their own eyes. Bodies after bodies, placed on the stakes along the road, some slowly starting to decay, some still fresh, some unlucky few still alive, until they pass by and release them.</p><p> </p><p>Even Nicolo’s determination to send at least a short prayer to God for each of the poor souls withers under the pure number of dead. It makes him want to cry first and go all numb later, and he can see the same grim determination on the face of his comrades.</p><p> </p><p>Each of them hated the ottomans a bit after their leave… but not like that. Not that much.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The immortals cannot avoid Walachia, but they avoid Targovishte. The Wallachians don’t like strangers, and neither does their ruler. Better to leave for Hungary and then for Austria as soon as possible. But the roads are deliberately bad around here. Everything to stop armies from passing easily, making the passing a far longer and less comfortable act than they anticipated.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo appreciates the journey, though, because as dark as the country may be, as beautiful it is. With small settlements sleeping behind impenetrable forests and craggy mountains, hell-bent to trap the stranger who does not know his path. It is so bad, that once or twice, they die on their way through them. On one noteworthy and unfortunate event, they must retrieve Andromache from a crevice that swallowed her whole, horse and all.</p><p> </p><p>They are even slower after that, walking in turn, because they are one horse short now, and as Andromache puts it: “There won’t be any good horses for sale, until we can buy one from the Magyars.”</p><p> </p><p>Under these circumstances, they are more than happy, when they manage to find an inn, any inn really, willing to cater them, although they look uncommon, each of them in their own way.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, you, Heathen…” The voice, using the local language, which is close enough to Latin to be understood, is as impolite as it is unpleasant, high and whiny, with more than just a hint of arrogance and a great deal of self-importance. Nicolo and Yussuf both turn. Around here, it is hard to say, which of them is the traitor and which the heathen in the eyes of strangers.</p><p> </p><p>Simultaneously, their hands land innocently near their weapons’ handle, while in the background Andromache plays with a whetstone. This time, it seems, Yussuf is the culprit, for the speaker wears rich, golden cross on his clothes and is accompanied by an insignificant byzantine priest. “You’re not… Turkish, by any chance…?”, he asks, all too casual, his guards pouring into the inn, unaware of impending doom.</p><p> </p><p>“Maghrebi”, Yussuf answers, cautiously deadpanned and turns back to the bread and cheese on the table. Nicolo doesn’t, and his eyes glint dangerously, despite Quynh’s hand on his shoulder. He watches the pompous local with continued distrust, as he places himself in one of the other tables of the inn, his guards skirting around him in well-practiced motion.</p><p> </p><p>“Then… what brings you here, if not reconnaissance…?”, the local goes on, mustering all four of them with amusement and… greed. “And in such… interesting company?”</p><p> </p><p>He looks unfazed by Nicolo’s rising and Andromache’s stare. Yussuf studies his eating knife with constant attention and shrugs, still willing to avoid the fight, but probably unable. “Travels.”</p><p> </p><p>Slowly the immortals fan out, not to be caught in between the tables, until only Yussuf is still sitting, carefully unmoved. The tension rises further, when the guards unstrap their crossbows and draw them, seemingly unrelatedly. Five… Five deadly bolds, they need to survive, not to rise suspicion before nightfall.</p><p> </p><p>“You might want to explain that to my master.” The whine scratches on Nicolo’s patience like chalk on a slate. “He likes travel stories.” There is a certain hint of threatening in the way, the local watches his well-trimmed fingernails instead of his opponents. “He is waiting quite… ah… impatiently for them.”</p><p> </p><p>There is noise outside. More men. More horses. More crossbows, too.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf seeks Andromache’s gaze and shrugs, asking for her preferred approach to the situation, when the silent conversation is interrupted impolitely.</p><p> </p><p>“You might… not want to disappoint him, do you? He is a good host; I can assure you.” The man sits very still now, while more guards enter the inn, weapons already in hand, more than ready for bloodshed.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache grins unhappily and sighs exaggeratedly, casting the recently learned sign for “later” to them. It comes handy now, the signing, the locals probably didn’t even notice. Yussuf though takes the hint easily and removes himself from the bench. “I might tell him, if he asks nicely.” He tilts his head and rotates his shoulders slightly, continuing: “Who might he be and where might I find him?”</p><p> </p><p>The door opens again, making the guards part their way before a man with an air of real authority and a quite impressive mustache. He ignores the now much less arrogant local, who springs from his seat, completely and studies the immortals instead. “Vlad, the third, is his name, and if you prefer, you might sit down again, and he will join you shortly.” There is no obvious threat in <em>his</em> voice, only in the bolts pointed at them, which is fully sufficient.</p><p> </p><p>Without even waiting for their reaction, he now turns to the local, Nicolo cannot help but think “lickspittle” and makes him shrink under his attention. “Go, care for the luggage, I’ll take it from here.” It’s a sight to behold, how the addressed crabs away, awkwardly limping backwards and struggles to open the door behind him. “Yes, milord, as you wish.”</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>After everyone is settled, Vlad at his table, a plate with meat and bread in front of him, the immortals at theirs, not too far away for a decent conversation and not moving very fast, the crossbows are lowered, though they do not disappear.</p><p> </p><p>“Strange company you are indeed…”, the lord exclaims, fully changing to Latin, the language of the educated, and raises his brows, before biting into a piece of meat skewered on his eating knife. “Though I doubt, you are spies… Even Mehmed can’t be that dense.” He chuckles in an amusement no one around him shares and settles back… studying them thoroughly. “I guess, a formal introduction is in order, so you may appreciate my company too.”</p><p> </p><p>He waves, and one of his guards, better armed and in better armor kneels shortly before him, before placing himself in front of them in the light of borrowed power. “I may announce the Lord Vladimir, third of his name and Voivode of Wallachia.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Vlad waves him away and watches them, demanding.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache stares calculatingly, while Nicolo can almost see, how she weighs their chances, before deciding, that for the time being, it is not worth it. At least, they can finish their meal first, before this gets to unpleasant. “Andromache the Scythian”, she growls bluntly, “Quynh of Dai Viet”, pointing to the one, “Yussuf al-Kaysani”, “Nicolo di Genova.”</p><p> </p><p>Vladimir does not jump to the obvious provocation, laughs instead openly. “Interesting. Two women. Two men. Each from a different place. I’d really like to hear that story…”</p><p> </p><p>All four immortals snarl, almost in unison. And Yussuf grumbles: “Ask the dead ottoman soldiers at your border about it…” He is not the only one, who can barely contain his temper… Nicolo’s unrest may be more silent, but it is no less obvious.</p><p> </p><p>The voivode only shrugs and smiles, almost tenderly. “It is them or my people. I am but a shield and as that, I am willing to sacrifice, whatever is necessary, may it be men, horses or my… good name.” He takes another bite of meat, as if to underline the statement and goes on, proudly: “I’d rather feast among the impaled dead and laugh on their demise, to spread terror within the enemy, than watch him creep on my people, robbing me of land and title and power.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo cringes under that show of power and self-justification, yet cannot escape the final statement, no matter how much he wishes to be elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>“A knife at the right point, in the right moment: this can change the world.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, finally, Andromache has had enough and answers: “You can do as you please with your subjects… we, on the other hand, are about to leave.”</p><p> </p><p>Now it is Vladimir’s turn to be blunt: “No… the moment, you entered my territory, you became my subjects. And thus… I claim, what is within my rights… You will be my guests, until you talk… or I grow tired of waiting. You know better than to provoke that, do you?”</p><p> </p><p>It is strange… He seems not even really interested in what they must tell him… At least, it is not the main point of this show of force. Nicolo could swear, if they hadn’t met him in person, if they hadn’t dared to oppose him on even the slightest level, they could walk free… It is mere accident, not distrust, that brought them here.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s too late to lament the coincidence, now they must deal with it.</p><p> </p><p>He looks knowingly at them and his lips twitch in grim amusement, the gaze wandering from one to the other in one fluid motion. “You…”, he points at Nicolo. “Tell me, how a Christian man can fall to such abandon to travel with heathens and pagans.” He underlines it with an arrogant rise of the head and continues: “Once the proud cities of Genoa and Venice joined the greatest of all forces against the cancer of Islam, fighting in the crusades to gain control of the holy cities.”</p><p> </p><p>The completely humorless smile strips away even the semblance of sanity, or is it humanity, in his face. “He can’t”, Quynh intercepts protectively, gripping Nicolo’s shoulder, pulling him to her side. “He is mute.”</p><p> </p><p>On her cue, Vlad raises his hand, listening carefully, the smile lighting up like a fire from the kindle. “Oh?” And with the words: “Then he has no use for me”, he lets the hand fall. Before any of the immortals can react, three crossbows are raised and fired, hitting Nicolo right into his chest, forcing him into stumbling back, helplessly, until he falls over a bench, clutching it, coughing blood on his way down, falling.</p><p> </p><p>It hurts, not exactly the bolts themselves, more the tightness of his muscles, restricting him from breathing, coughing on the blood that fills his lungs, slowly but inevitably. He holds on to dear live, as he hears the others cry out, scream. Someone rushes to his side, Yussuf, he presumes, although his vision fades, whispers soothing words, he can’t decipher over the rushing sound of blood in his ears. Stay still, he prays… Don’t wake up now, better yet, do not die so soon, the longer, you can draw it out, the more time for the others to react, to plan…</p><p> </p><p>The breath comes wet and elaborated, gives no strength, drowns him in the unwanted metallic smell and taste. No… don’t die just yet…</p><p> </p><p>His body is pulled up, dragged over the ground. A voice is by his ear, almost tenderly. “Farewell, traitor… Thank me before the saints for granting you a far too easy death.”</p><p> </p><p>Something hits the ground with a strangely squelching sound, and he thinks… ‘Oh… that’s me.’ Strangely disconnected from death now seizing him.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>It is always hard to remember, why you have been dying and if it is better to stay down or to spring into action as soon, as you can. Whenever it is especially vital, Nicolo always feels jumpy, but the more natural reaction, carefully honed by years without backup is to stay down…</p><p> </p><p>Feel your body, is it whole? Is it fully healed? Are you bound? Can you move… What can you feel, what can you hear? Open your eyes just a little. Is there light? What do you see?</p><p> </p><p>And above all: before you know, what’s going on… don’t move. This very important rule, however, does unfortunately not apply to the bolt, that just now gets pushed of his body and, tipped by the tiniest of inhales, falls to the ground with an audible plink.</p><p> </p><p>No problem at all, if the room is noisy, if there is fighting, screaming, shouting.</p><p> </p><p>There isn’t. The plink falls into a silence, that expands around him, while he drowsily wakes, trying to figure out, what happens around him, but the first thing, after the sound is one, even worse… “Voivode? You need to see that!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bonus points for correct guesses on the person of interest or the citation I tried to embed.<br/>We are by the way rapidly nearing closure, a fact I both enjoy and dread, for it was an interesting ride with all of you and although I like to finish things, I will miss all your helpful and friendly comments. I live by them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Prisoners</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A taste of captivity, although a comfortable one... mostly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Have a fast resolution to the cliffhanger please... wrote as fast, as I could. Now, back to research... So next update will take a few days again.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is not that bad to be held in the dungeons of the Targovishte castle. The walls leave an uneasy tingle of familiarity in Nicolo, as they remind him of the monasteries of his childhood, but most of them are covered in tapestries and rugs to keep out the cold that creeped through the stone, wherever it lies open.</p><p> </p><p>In addition, the voivode tries to be generous, providing them with every comfort, he can think of, ample food, fine bedsheets, the company of his most pleasing and educated servants. Candlelight in abundance, music, even books, insofar as he can provide. Parchment for Yussuf, singers and telltales for Quynh.</p><p> </p><p>If not for the closed doors, strong locks and armed guards, one could mistake them for honored guests. Nicolo is always in the center, never let out of sight, as he registers relieved. He doesn’t like it, far from it in fact, but it means, that Vlad only knows about <em>his</em> infliction, not about the others. Andromache confirms the suspicion as soon as she can without raising suspicion, and all of them try to keep it that way. It would make their escape indefinitely harder, if the voivode guessed the full extent of their abilities. Even now, he barely ever lets them out of sight, even behind closed doors.</p><p> </p><p>And each morning, he invites himself to their breakfast and watches them, smirking, assessing their dynamics, understanding more, than they are comfortable with. It doesn’t help either, that he is educated, speaks several languages, including basic Arabic, and has a good understanding of the atmosphere in a room.</p><p> </p><p>And each time, after eating, he asks them about the secret of Nicolo’s immortality, about how they found out, thousand questions, for which neither of them has the answers. Or is willing to give them.</p><p> </p><p>He rarely threatens. It seems useless. They all know, what is at stake, and using a lever too often, might weaken it. He does not hesitate to inflict pain, however, at least not to Nicolo, who will easily heal, what is done to him. At first, he watches in fascination, as the wounds close, when he hits, cust or stabs him, but the longer the game is on, the more his attention shifts to another fact: the protectiveness of the others towards Nicolo.</p><p> </p><p>It is of course easy to see, how Yussuf flinches, whenever Vlad in a sudden flash of interest grabs Nicolo’s arm, and runs a knife along the pale skin, no matter how fast the cut knits itself back together, no matter how dispassionate Nicolo tries to react to it.</p><p> </p><p>It takes longer to see the tension in both Quynh and Andromache, when he does it. But each of them has their own ties to their youngest and hates to see him tortured so ignorantly.</p><p> </p><p>Vlad is fascinated, and he seems to ponder the question, what it could mean quite thoroughly. But he doesn’t come, yet, to the right conclusion, and he doesn’t push it either, by endangering the women or Yussuf, for he tries to avoid losing his leverage against Nicolo, who cares openly about the well-being of his travel-companions.</p><p> </p><p>After a few days, he announces, obviously losing his patience with their lack of compliance to his requests: “I will get my answers. And if I need to cut if from the squirming body of your crippled miracle, I will do so. I am willing to sacrifice any of you for this secret, this weapon, that will bring my enemies to their knees…”</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the continued presence of crossbows and locks seems much less likely to hold them back. It is time to do something, no matter how comfortable their prison has been. They can’t intercept the first try to pry an answer, a scream, anything from Nicolo’s body, they can only watch under the constant threat of exposing themselves and comfort him, when Vlad has strained his stamina and patience for the morning and leaves them to their own devices.</p><p> </p><p>But not one of them is willing to go through that ordeal again, no matter the costs of their fast departure.</p><p> </p><p>Ironically, Nicolo himself copes best, at least on the surface, for he doesn’t have to watch the whole thing and is too occupied to think about the consequences. Pain, in the end, is only that. Pain. It comes and goes with the waves of his repairing body, leaving nothing but unmarred skin, washing away as easily as tears and blood. It is watching the pain, knowing, he could do something, should do something, but cannot, that scares him, so he too, is all too willing to risk everything, before Vlad figures out, he could put each of them in turn through the whole process.</p><p> </p><p>Besides… he has seen the stakes raised over the front gate of the castle, so very similar to the ones, they found piercing through ottoman soldiers. A death so excruciatingly slow scares all of them to the bone.</p><p> </p><p>It won’t be easy, though. Vlad’s security does not solely rely on chains, locks, fences. He depends on solid walls, they cannot squeeze themselves through, on eyes, watching them all the time, constantly on display, on weapons, prepared to kill on the slightest provocation. Of course, sooner or later he will be forced to reduce at least the guards, he cannot keep that up for an infinite time, but however long it will take, it would be too late.</p><p> </p><p>Now, the sign language becomes invaluable, for each attempt to talk to each other in a language, the guards do not understand is met with severe repercussions. But they don’t even notice the subtle gestures, the back turned to them, easily discussing and communicating a plan.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Even Nicolo’s still limited experience in that area has already cemented the realization – no plan survives the first contact with the enemy. This however is the very first time, in his life, it goes the other way around, with things just playing into their hand, almost to good to be true…</p><p> </p><p>They figured out that their best shot on freedom will be at threatening Vladimir directly. But he won’t return until the morning, meaning in turn, they will have to flee in broad daylight, the probably enraged resident soldiers and maybe even citizens right behind them…</p><p> </p><p>But instead, he returns early, in the late afternoon, the sunset not far ahead, his eyes glinting with a strange excitement, a disquieting smile almost hidden below the mustache. Slowly he places himself to the side, so his guards have full view on the prisoners and starts: “We will try something new… Maybe it’s true, what they say, even in the bible.”</p><p> </p><p>With patronizing gesture, he waves Nicolo closer and raises his brow on his hesitation. A second wave, and the guards threaten to shoot the other immortals with their crossbows.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo sighs inaudibly and goes, the struggle with his own temper clearly visible on his face. He should play scared, he should not let him know, how little a single bolt does really change for the immortals, but he is not good at lying like that, mainly, because he is rarely in the focus of things.</p><p> </p><p>The lack of care confuses the voivode, but not enough to let Nicolo off. As soon, as he can, he reaches for Nicolo’s arm, slashing the pulse with a broad knife, opening a thick gash not easily closed again. “Blood is life…”, he hisses in fascination and studies, as it splashes out of the wound pulsing with Nicolo’s heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>The sudden movement startles everyone in the room, the brutality of it even shocking the soldiers, who know watch in horror, as their sovereign pulls Nicolo’s hand up to his lips to try and drink some of the red liquid, hoping it might trigger his own immortality.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo breathes through it, the pain, the onslaught of nausea and vertigo, waiting for his body to cope, knowing, his comrades will recover faster from this than any soldier can. It’s a deliberate decision to fall to one knee as if he was too weak to stay standing, putting Vlad off balance, waiting for Andromache’s signal. And he can’t help the smile, when he hears the first soldier behind him hit the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Vlad’s eyes widen, above him, confused by the sudden recklessness of his prisoners, when Nicolo’s intact hand shoots up and grabs him by the throat, pulls him down, into something cruelly mocking an embrace, pressing his torturer’s arms against him, compressing the airway just enough to make him wheeze and cough.</p><p> </p><p>When Nicolo stands up and turns, a bit unsure from blood loss and fighting against Vlad’s resistance, the others have already incapacitated all guards within the room, leaving only the ones outside, beyond the grate that poses as first barrier, who watch in rising horror. All crossbows, inside and outside the room, have been fired, but only Yussuf bleeds a little from a cut on his arm, nothing major, the bolts sticking in rugs and chests and chairs instead of living flesh.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache grins almost overly satisfied and steps closer, taking the control of Vlad’s writhing body over. Nicolo is unsure, if she doesn’t trust him to hold him, because he is still healing, or not to kill him, until they have no further use of him. He is thankful though, slumps against her body for a moment, before their grip changes, pushing his forehead affectionately into her shoulder, because there is no other way to tell her, what he feels, right now.</p><p> </p><p>Her smile tells him, he is understood, then he leaves it to her and backs away, sitting down, until the healing is complete, trusting her to take it from there. She is best at that, the well-practiced authority easily overpowering any resistance, as she commands the soldiers outside to open the door, if they want to keep their leader alive.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It is hard to move with a hostage, but it is necessary. The local guards and soldiers have such ingrained obedience to the lord, his mere presence ensures little to no resistance, which is preferable to the blood bath about to happen, when they lose their leverage. They don’t really care about their fate. This isn’t the ottoman army. The castle can’t hold enough soldiers to keep them down. But the thought of killing everyone present to keep the secret, doesn’t appeal. Better to keep the impact as low as possible. Bad enough, they will probably have to kill a local, or not so local, leader… No matter how bad he may be, a vacuum of power is usually worse for the resident population, especially in the face of war.</p><p> </p><p>But Vlad has a good sense of self-preservation. He ceases to struggle, when he realizes, he is no match for Andromache, woman or not, and even commands his soldiers to stand aside on his own, before something unfortunate happens, fully aware of the risks and waiting for his chance to turn on them again.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t let him have it, until they are in the inner court by the main gate, horses ready for them. The situation is, of course, tense, dozens of eyes, seen and unseen watch them, weapons prepared or already drawn, pointed at the ground in a transparent feign of peace.</p><p> </p><p>One after they other they mount the horses, their horses, to be exact, even fitted with their own saddles, until only Andromache remains on the ground, still holding the voivode at knife point, yelling at them to get through the gate, so she alone is left inside the castle. They aren’t exactly happy about the command, but trust her, now is not the time to question her decisions.</p><p> </p><p>In a minute, she will rid the world of that monster, will jump onto her new horse and get out, follow them, riding into the gloom, soon to be turned darkness, so they comply.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo, already in the gate house turns one last time, when he sees a sudden movement, a soldier, jumping at Andromache, axe high above his head, ready to cut her down, ready to wound her badly enough, she won’t make it, she won’t be able to follow.</p><p> </p><p>He must, needs to cry out… it is the only way to safe her. He inhales, forcing air against the suffocating pressure, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and starts: “ANDR…”</p><p> </p><p>An arrow flies by his shoulder, one of Quynh's it seems, just as Andromache turns, not from his stifled cry, but from the sound of the steps behind her…. The guard is hit right in the face, stumbles, Andromache finishes him off, although losing grip of the man she would like to dispose.</p><p> </p><p>There is no time to get him back and kill him, the voivode is snake-fast, moving out of her reach. Andromache does the next best thing, running by the horse’s side to get it into movement and jumping up into the saddle, already passing the gate, before Vlad can command it to be closed again…</p><p> </p><p>“Go, go, go…” She shouts, leaving no doubts, what to do next, as Nicolo presses his body low into the saddle, urging his horse on, while coughing heavily, as if the word stuck in his throat was trying to kill him. It only stops, when they slow down, the castle far behind, the river, they will use to hide their tracks right before them. Quynh and Yussuf in turn shoot worried looks at him, and he shrugs… if they didn’t notice the incident, just now, he is not about to explain…</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As usual, comments are very welcome.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. A thin line</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes there are other ways than fighting.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I tried to balance personal and political development in this, but I am not fully satisfied.  Sorry,  it is probably not up to part, but at least, yesterday's movie gave me new ideas</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the continuous confrontation with war in all its ugliness and the further threat from the ottomans nearly everywhere they could turn, with the knowledge, their cover is blown and at least one man will throw whatever he can at the task of catching them, there is little choice.</p><p> </p><p>They need to get lost in the wideness of Russia, let their tracks get covered by the sheer size of this sparsely populated land, the cruel cold of its winter and taxing wetness of its springs. They need time to recover, to get back to themselves. To figure out the balance of their dynamics, so they can be the unity, the perfection, that lies just out of reach.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo is not sure about this retreat, he has never been so far away from anything resembling civilization. Even deep in the desert, the next oasis, the next travel point was always in reach, the ways were well known and well-used, and Europe, his home country in particular was so full of people, it was hard to get lost at all.</p><p> </p><p>This is different. For days, there are not even signs of other humans, no path, no road, not even smoke on the sky. Andromache is at ease, one with the horse she bought, once they crossed Hungary, which she claims is better than all of theirs combined. They need to take her word for it, they have no idea.</p><p> </p><p>Each of the other immortals is caught in his own thoughts, unsure, what to make of it, unsure, how to proceed. The darkness of the forests, the barrenness of the land, the cold sting of rain and wind appeal to neither of them… Not Quynh, whose country, as they all remember was full of warm, soft dampness and friendly people… well, minus the invading army. Not Yussuf, who can find no trace of the familiar blueness of the Mediterranean Sea in the grey waters here. Especially not Nicolo, who feels lonely and lost, even in this now very comfortable company.</p><p> </p><p>Until now, he hadn’t realized, how much simple human contact still means to him… although, as he reflects, he would be a very old man now, if nature had run its course…</p><p> </p><p>Instead, his body is still young, just crossing the brink of manhood, not even arriving at full prime. And will remain so, if the others are to believe. It offers no comfort. In a strange way, it makes him feel weak. In the eyes of the world he will always be looking vulnerable, innocent. No matter the cruelties, he has been through, no matter the pain, he has buried, deep inside. His face remains unfazed, incomplete.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The house is far away from anything else, a leftover of some hunting ground, but they have made it a home. The local farmers at the village, two days’ worth of travel away, whisper of Baba Yaga’s hovel, but to them, the well-kept wooden wall, the fences and the small garden shielded by the southern wall offer comfort. The thick trunks of firs and spruces hide them away from curious looks and put them at ease, allowing them to be themselves more than ever before.</p><p> </p><p>It’s no rare occasion, not a single word is uttered for days, while the sign language with its compounded, efficient communication evolves into something completely different, unique to them, understood by no other being ever, evolving vocabulary and curtness according to their needs.</p><p> </p><p>The same is true for their easy exchange of affection… From the way, Nicolo and Yussuf melt into each other by the fire in the evening or Andromache pulls her smaller companion into her lap to the small signs, a slap on the shoulder, a small caress to the face, a hug, a smile. They are no longer four individuals or even two pairs. They are family… no, so much more than that… The understanding is so deep, sometimes, communication isn’t needed at all.</p><p> </p><p>And the fighting… just knowing, what the other will do… Trusting him or her to cover your back without the need, no, even the thought of checking. Stepping right assured, your left flank is already clear. Even Andromache had never seen, felt, experienced anything like it, at least not with anyone else but Quynh…</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Quynh pulls Nicolo into the house by his collar, while he struggles, laughing, the hands cold, the nose red from freezing. Andromache is still outside, bombarding them with powdery snow, Nicolo exactly the shield, his smaller sister needs.</p><p> </p><p>She does however underestimate, what her “little” brother can do, now he is properly trained and fed. Feigning to stumble over the doorstep, he pulls her down, using his higher weight as leverage, turning, until he comes out just right to push her back towards the open door, earning her a full blow of snow and then an embrace from Andromache, kisses included.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, stop it!”, Yussuf grumbles, sitting by the fire, tending it, so their shenanigans won’t let the room cool out completely, but there is no real anger in it. His beloved hates snow with all his might, but he loves his family more. Nicolo sits down beside him, placing a firm kiss unto his cheek, signing a small Pardon. “I love you.” A sign, so well-known, Yussuf doesn’t really need to see it, to know, Nicolo is doing it, just feel any part of the familiar movement. He signs back the same, although he could just say it… If just feels more intimate that way.</p><p> </p><p>“A little bored, you three?”, he asks in the warm Maghrebi Arabic, he knows, Nicolo loves most, and goes on: “I, on the other hand, have things to do…”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo looks at him suspicious, the eyes smiling in mock-distrust. He knows full well, if he now, just tips his head this little more…</p><p> </p><p>Yes… Of course, Yussuf can’t help but smile. “I made something for you”, handing him a small leather casing over.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo does not immediately open it. He needs some more seconds to appreciate all he was handed by fate, more than enough compensation for the past… Only Yussuf urging him on, breaks him out of his little moment of absence, but to make up for it, he opens it quicker, pulling out a parchment, rolling it out.</p><p> </p><p>A smile breaks out in his face, one of those, he just can’t contain, while he studies the detailed sketch of his family… Andromache’s joking frown, Quynh’s enigma, the unfiltered love flowing from Yussuf’s face… and himself… a mischievous sparkle in the eyes, despite the lack of color. It’s beautiful, but that just skirts the genius of it… more important, it is real. It is them, how they really are, when the doors are closed, when the fire burns down. No pretending, no masks… to good to be true, to good for the world.</p><p> </p><p>Just a very little sad, he rolls it up again, puts it back in the casing, smiling grateful, showering his love with small kisses and touches, until he can hear Andromache clear her throat by the door. “Guys? We need to talk…”</p><p> </p><p>What a depressing start of a conversation.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The luxury of forgetting about the world, of being forgotten in turn, could only last so long. It is still winter, but spring is coming, and with it, problems. Ivan of Muscovy has refused to pay tribute to the golden horde, and there is no way, the tartars will let him get away with it. It means war. It means, another land thrown into disorder, another thousand, ten thousand or whatever farmers at loss. It means, they still have a task in the world. It is time to leave.</p><p> </p><p>Time to get rid of the protection they needed, knowing, they can come back, or find another place like it, whenever it is necessary again. In order to survive immortality, to live, not merely to exist, they needed to find their center, and will again, somewhere in the future… It is an important lesson, so hard to obtain and so easily forgotten in the rush of time.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Half a year of fighting small battles against Tartars, have made it quite obvious, in most wars no one ever wins. There are of course the farmers and villagers, the children, the women, the old. Nicolo can’t count anymore how often it is them, barely saving their own lives, and still so thankful, for just the small mercies, the immortals can give them. A coin here, protection there. A path, a meal, a good night’s sleep.</p><p> </p><p>But they aren’t they only ones. Even in the Tartar army, there are lots of poor devils, wielding old-fashioned weapons, wearing no armor at all, some looking as old as the boiled leather they wear, some younger than Nicolo looks like. Boys, children really, throwing themselves into the battle for what? Fame? Riches? That never happens.</p><p> </p><p>A good share of wars has made it abundantly clear, there is no such thing as winning a war. Not for the people fighting it. And yet, here they are. Watching another two armies, about to collide. Waiting, taunting. Just a feeble band of water in between them. For now, it is impossible to cross it, and not for the lack of trying. Whenever the Tartars have a go for it, although they vastly outnumber the Muscovites, they fall to the superior weapons of the other side. The Muscovites really don’t try very hard at all, for the closer they get to the other shore, the more they get into the range of Tartarian bows.</p><p> </p><p>But it is already October. Each morning a thin layer of ice covers the water, each morning a bit thicker, until one day, it will not melt any more in the rising sun, and then, mere days, until the barrier between the two armies disappears.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can already imagine, what is about to happen, can hear men screaming, in anger, in fear, in pain, in death. Can smell the faint odor of blood… Can feel the rush of the battle. An old-fashioned slaughter, far from the overwhelming power of the ottoman army and still just as mad, just as insatiable, just as awful.</p><p> </p><p>The river looks even smaller, once, you look at it like that. And the immortals have not even decided yet, if they will join the fight… and on which side. Probably not the Crimean Tartarian, they might feel owed the tributes, but have a well-earned reputation for cruelty. But the Muscovites… or rather their leader Iwan is fully responsible for this situation…</p><p> </p><p>This is, when Nicolo gets a strange idea…. What if…</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>“Nicolo, you are insane…” It is a fond smile, Andromache gives him, shaking her head, unbelieving. “You really can’t mean that.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs and signs a further approval. He can’t do it, so he must make sure, he can convince her thoroughly. If one can pull that, it is her… She even looks the part, at least on the Russian side. Yussuf will have to do the same with the Tartar side and hope, this works out, while Quynh and Nicolo himself are reduced to silent watchers… or in his case guardians.</p><p> </p><p>Convincing him will be even harder, because he has to leave Nicolo behind… But with his looks, he stands no chance of passing as ally… Yussuf will need to go alone.</p><p> </p><p>It already leaves a strangely worried feeling in his own guts. Yussuf won’t like the idea at all. So, Andromache first, he will need her authority to make this work…</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Daily Nicolo is standing still, his back turned to Iwan’s tent, watching the Muscovite that in turn eyes him suspiciously. He can hear Andromache’s voice, sometimes loudly arguing, sometimes just an amiable whisper, a constant murmur along the same lines. You cannot win this war, stand down… Safe your army. Safe lives. It is not to late yet… And maybe the terms of the horde are far better than you imagine…</p><p> </p><p>It has been weeks and he has heard it so often by now, he doubts, it may work, all the deaths already happening aside, and dreams himself away instead… Listens to another voice, honeying the same words to Akhmat Khan at the other shore. Sometimes, he thinks, he can see him, walking around, his soft stride so very different from the hard, choppy movement of the Crimean Tartars, and it leaves his heart stuttering.</p><p> </p><p>It has been weeks, and he has not been able to touch, talk, see Yussuf, and it leaves him empty and hopeless. What if something happens? What if he needs help? There are battles, on the riverbank, there are fights within the camps. Nicolo can’t know and must resist to just throw patience and caution overboard and pass the river, no matter what. Will this ever end? Or does the weather mock him? And if it ends… will it be worth it…?</p><p> </p><p>Just, when the maelstrom of thoughts in his head goes for another round, asking himself, of the ice on the river might already carry, he can hear a cry going through the camp… harsh, pointed Russian, so raw, he’s still bad at figuring it out… “They are leaving…”</p><p> </p><p>It jumps from mouth to mouth, before the physical is visible, but it is true… On the other side of the river, tents are disassembled, wagons are packed, horses saddled.</p><p> </p><p>They are leaving… The Tartars go… the worst is averted, the slaughter avoided.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>It takes another week, before only the immortals remain on the riverbanks. Two tents, one on either side of the freezing river. Every morning, Nicolo checks the ice, moving a bit further every day, until finally, finally he can pass…</p><p> </p><p>With something akin to a silent cry, he almost jumps up the other shore, all but running for the tent, only stopping, when he can finally fully see him, Yussuf in prayer, Yussuf alive. He can barely stop himself from crashing right into him, grinning like a madman. But prayer is important, and it is Gods grace, that kept his lover safe… So he impatiently paces around, ten steps forth and back, until his love is finally, finally ready for him.</p><p> </p><p>He has not yet fully risen, after finishing, when Nicolo is onto him, throwing him to the ground in a desperate attempt of an embrace, showering fierce, eager kisses all over his face, his hair, his neck. Yussuf would chuckle at that, if he wasn’t so busy, whispering poetry full of innocent longing and filthy want into Nicolo’s ears, words, so precious and perfect, they make Nicolo in turn smile and blush violently.</p><p> </p><p>They are very thankful, Andromache and Quynh wait another day, until they trust the river with the horses.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Nobody expects</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>the Spanish inquisition...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry, this is bad stuff... intense and very angsty.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What began as a relaxed stroll west, has become an urgent struggle, straining both the horses and the immortals, giving them barely enough rest. At first, it is only Yussuf, pleading them to hurry towards Iberia, because he heard rumors, his fellow Muslims are in peril under the pressure of the Reconquista. He does not expect the others to help fend of the Christian kingdoms of Castile and Aragon. He knows as good as everyone, the moors on the Iberian island live on borrowed time. But helping him cushion the blow, make sure, as many as may want can flee towards north Africa, that is something, they can do.</p><p> </p><p>But the closer they come to their designation, the more disconcerting whispers they encounter. Something horrible is going on, and though they do not fully understand, what it is, the need to be there and do something presses them to their limits.</p><p> </p><p>The change, once they pass the Pyrenees, is almost palpable. It’s not, as if France wasn’t a Christian country, but Iberia is filled with a fervor, a religious fury, Yussuf has only encountered once before… and Nicolo not at all.</p><p> </p><p>He can feel the unrest of his companions, when they first read the signs, the too richly decorated churches in too poor areas, the processions, the constantly suspicious controlling eyes not guarding the strangers passing through, but their own peers. He just does not know, what to make of it yet. It leaves him nervous and irritated.</p><p> </p><p>It also makes him watchful, aware of the hateful stares, he and Yussuf receive, then and again. Just, when he had all but forgotten, there is any importance of the differences between their worship.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The young men may be nobles or the sons of rich merchants and have embraced the fact that they are important. That family and influence will keep them safe, no matter, what they do with their time. That they are, in way, even expected to cause some mischief to sow their wild oats.</p><p> </p><p>They are probably a bane to the locals, and thus, Andromache eyes them already with the careful distance, that is a telltale sign, she is annoyed. But it is Yussuf, they notice, Yussuf who draws their attention. They gather around the next table at the inn and start loudly mocking Muslims in general and Moriscos in particular. They do not yet cross the line of utter blasphemy, but it is a close thing. Nicolo can see, it is getting under Yussuf’s skin, and the only thing, keeping him in place is his concern for them… On his own, he would teach them a lesson not easily forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>Looking like he looks, though, this will only result in more problems than they can stomach. So, instead, it is Nicolo rising. Seemingly careful and calm, he walks over to their table, the hands folded before him, as if in prayer, the head slightly bowed, so they can’t see his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>May his posture be meek, his eyes are on fire… How dare they insult his beloved’s faith like that? How dare they possibly believe they can get away with everything? How dare they think, they are better than everyone else? In the eyes of God, all men are equal… and in Nicolo’s eyes, faith is more important than the name, you give to the Almighty.</p><p> </p><p>Soon, the young men notice him, try to calculate the mismatching signals, he is giving, unable to figure out, how someone so young can have this air of authority, someone this well-trained look so defenseless. They do fall into their previous mistakes and ignore the one warning, they get.</p><p> </p><p>They keep talking, now insulting him, instead of Yussuf, tentatively testing for potential weaknesses. Nicolo, unable to answer in turn, only watches, his eyes staring disconcertingly at the speaker each time, until he loses track and quiets under the piercing eyes. He does not try to deescalate. He is looking for trouble, aims to humiliate them just enough…</p><p> </p><p>It is even simpler, than anticipated. Within minutes, they shove their seats back, stand up, try to circle him, push him… Always trying to get at his back, like the cowards, he assumed them to be. Even that he takes… some more times, until the attack gains momentum. Until they feel reassured.</p><p> </p><p>At this point, he turns the tables. Sidestepping, he grabs the fist, about to hit him, turns the arm attached in a painful angle and uses the impulse of the movement to lift himself from the ground, placing both feet firmly against the second man’s sternum in one blow, hard enough to push the air out of him and send him flying. The first unlucky youngster, still in his grip cushions his fall, going down with Nicolo on top of him, while number three and four meet their fates crashing hard on the ground, after a foot sweep and a single thrust of Nicolo’s thrust towards the throat.</p><p> </p><p>It is over in less than a minute, without any persisting damage, but with a very instructive amount of pain. Nicolo lets go of the fist he was still holding and stands up, tapping the dust from his shirt and trousers a few times, then sitting down, as if nothing happened.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t help but answer Andromache’s hidden smile with a big grin, before drawing even closer to Yussuf, leaning against his body.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The town is no different than the last, they passed, not bigger, nor more devout, not richer, nor more important. It is a town as any on the peninsula, and yet, Nicolo has a bad feeling, when they come closer, a strange foreboding he cannot place.</p><p> </p><p>He exchanges tense looks with the other immortals when they see the thick black drifts of smoke that rise from the central market space, having still no inkling, what happens. It’s the overwhelming, sick smell of burning flesh that finally alarms them, an odor they last encountered during the plague, when bodies couldn’t be buried fast enough anymore, so burning seemed easier in some places. But then… so long ago, it wasn’t accompanied by the inhumanly screams that now echo through the narrow streets, sending shivers through Nicolo’s very bone.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, dear God in heaven… someone is burning alive! Nicolo presses forward, driven by sheer terror, willing to do whatever necessary to rescue whoever is in the need. Yussuf and Quynh follow quickly, leaving Andromache behind a bit. Nicolo looks back, just a second, frowning at the strange look in her eyes, but does not stop on that, although she wants him to.</p><p> </p><p>There is someone in need, he needs to move on, to…</p><p> </p><p>The market space opens for him, hundreds of people watching in such dreaded silence, Nicolo only recognizes them, when he can finally see them. He almost collides with the back of Quynh’s horse, when he sees, what else is there, placed right in the middle… Stacks of wood and hay, drenched in tar and oil, a stake placed atop each of them, beings, barely human any more bound upon them.</p><p> </p><p>They bleed, they sag within the ropes, they cry. They are ugly from injury and dirt, hair unkempt, cloth torn. Barely human at all. Between the stacks, men are moving, bearing torches, a monk, preaching loudly in Castiliano.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo doesn’t understand the words, but the sense is all too clear. No. No! Oh, good Lord, NO! They cannot possibly intend to burn people alive <em>on purpose</em>. Can they? Everything in him cries out in terror, when he sees the monk praying, the cross raised high, the Latin litany of sin and forgiveness on his lips, then commanding the men to light the next fire. How in all heavens can he do such thing?</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo’s conscious thought is gone… Blown out like a candle… he just tries to go forward, through the crowd, towards the crime against everything sacred, he tries… Something is hindering him, he fights… he…</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf pulls him back with almost brutal intensity, embraces him, torn between the urgent necessity to keep him and the wish to console him, comfort him. The warm whisper in his ears is meaningless, a constant murmur, making no sense… Why… no… No… “NO!”</p><p> </p><p>Faces turn. Their struggle has not gone unnoticed. More arms reach for Nicolo, it doesn’t make sense. It just… His horse is gone. Trotting back to where they came from. Someone leads him the same way, no matter how much he struggles, someone else, so familiar, is pressed against his back. “Go, Nicolo, please, love… We can’t do anything for them… Please… “</p><p> </p><p>Please. The voice finally reaches out to his inner self, forming a new kind of understanding… A sad, shattering realization. He is right… the poor souls are lost, no matter what, their lives forfeit, one way or the other, nothing to do for them anymore. All, he can do, is survive, is doing the right thing, finding out, what this is and prevent it from happening again.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They meet up close by, just outside the reach of the town and talk. Usually, Nicolo mostly listens, signing his approval, once the discussion on one or the other topic is finished, content with Andromache’s plans, or whatever Yussuf brewed up. Quynh and him rarely agree, she is usually much more vengeful than he ever could be. Today it’s different. He argues, his hands barely ever rest, explaining, how this is the vilest thing, he has ever seen, even worse than the sieges, worse than the wars, for it is not only deliberate cruelty, torture, terror, but also a crime against the natural, God-given order.</p><p> </p><p>There is no way, he will let this stand, no way, he will let the monk and his servants get away. His eyes are flaming hot, his heart beats faster, the longer Andromache advises caution. He doesn’t want to hear, that the people around just accepted it, that they will make no friends intercepting here. This has nothing to do with rational thought. This is madness, and all reaction is necessarily insane as well.</p><p> </p><p>How can the other immortals not see, what he sees? How can they not want to help…?</p><p> </p><p>It takes a long, long time, until the realization dawns. They are all shaken. They want to help. Will help. But not in the rushed heat of Nicolo’s religious tension. If the whole country has gone insane, no simple fight will help any, no matter how much he wishes to kill something, no matter, how much the blood boils.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, he accepts their arguments, still pacing angrily, the hands raised, as if to give another objection, but unable to find one. He hates himself for giving in. He hates them for being the voice of reason. And above all, he hates the men willing to abuse God’s name.</p><p> </p><p>He keeps to himself, the rest of the day, unable to forgive them just now, although, or rather, because they are right. Even his hands fall silent, no soft “I love you”, no casual agreement to cook, not even an acknowledgement, when they talk to him. He knows, he is far from well, but he can’t take their help, just now, can’t even stand a simple touch.</p><p> </p><p>This night is the first after a long, long time, he has nightmares again, nightmares of the nameless beast that is the human nature, that lashes out, when in danger or fear, that kills indiscriminately. He falls into a sea of bodies, ready to devour him and each face is torn up in pain and panic, engulfed in flames or drowned in water.</p><p> </p><p>He cries out, unable to stop the slaughter in his head, thrashing helplessly, screaming.</p><p> </p><p>Soothing hands hold him down, soothing voices whisper softly. “You are safe, it’s alright, you are safe… Nicolo, come back to us.”</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The gallows are a place of dread for all the poor people. The constant reminder to be only one mistake away from even worse fates. Maimed, crippled, dead. Only the truly desperate search the gallows for coins after an execution. Only the kids roaming the streets dive below the wooden frame, searching even the last place for valuables, knowing, that the executioner might well still be around. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What does it matter? The hunger is always stronger than the caution. Nicolo knows. He knows all the best places to hide, should his luck run out… As today… Grim people clad in monks’ robes appear in the darkness, the tonsures gleaming, when they remove their hoods. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He can hear them talking, it doesn’t make sense. One pleads to kill, while the others remain adamant… and somehow, they seem less merciful than the former one. When they leave, he hears a groan. A man on the wheel. Still alive. I’m sorry for you, he thinks and reaches for his small knife. His hands shake heavily when he commits his first murder.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>When Nicolo wakes, he cries… distant from his past as well as from his anger, tears so soft as summer rain. He lets Yussuf embrace him and leans into the intimacy. Silence falls over the fire, although all four immortals are awake. Only glances are exchanged, worried, bitter, sad. In the end they all reach the same joyless determination. They won’t be able to stop this everywhere. But they will stop it, where they go.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I won't go into much detail, what valuables can be found below the gallows, let's just say, it is not coins, ok?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Absolution</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolo needs to deal with rage and guilt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A bit on the short side, but I wanted to post it before the weekend. I feel,  the Spanish inquisition has quite a lot of promising conflict for Nicolo, so I might stay at it for a while, but it's hard to avoid the unsavoury details... I don't really know...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a good place to make unpleasant things disappear. The edge of an untamed, mountainous forest, the presence of wolves, bears, lynxes probably nearby. The road not nearly as populated as more important trade routes. And it keeps a whole little town safe from the outside world. Or will be, when the immortals succeed in their mission.</p><p> </p><p>They are well prepared, knowing the modus operandi of the clerical inquisition all too well by now. They have done this probably a dozen times, cleaning the world of religious zealots and greedy officials, bound to feast on the suffering of hundreds or even thousands. They were discrete, and still, the job of sheering the human herd under the church’s supervision has got a lot more dangerous, since they started to intervene.</p><p> </p><p>A dozen places saved from this plague; a dozen inquisitors vanished never to appear again. They choose carefully and they act with purpose, mostly not even engaging in close range fight. A few well-placed arrows usually shatter the forces, leaving the actual targets of their attacks exposed… Afterwards, the bodies disappear, buried deep or burned.</p><p> </p><p>But this is different. This is personal. A group of two inquisitors travelling together for the time being, one, the first they encountered. When Nicolo lost it. The one, they could not get hold of, until now… The other, especially cruel and known for taking personal advantage from his doings. A man deserving, what is coming for him.</p><p> </p><p>Today is payment day. They will not get a second chance to get them both, so they will use it. No matter what.</p><p> </p><p>As they see the column of horses and carriages approaching, they realize, the armed escort is bigger than they thought, more than twice of what is usual. Seems, someone got wind of the danger. But today, that won’t matter. They have their plan ready and are willing to go through. He, who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The fight is short, but incredibly harsh. No pardon is asked, and none is given. Lucky the few, who got away, before the battle really started, for once the first immortal fell to the ground, dead, Nicolo this time, for he got reckless, but waking again, they let no one get away.</p><p> </p><p>Andromache fights like a thunderstorm, Yussuf is like the desert wind, fast and deadly, Quynh’s arrows fell everyone who tries to escape with the precious knowledge of their abilities. Nicolo… he would stop to admire the grace of their skill, the beauty of their dance, if his own fire wasn’t burning even hotter. The helpless fury of the past is nothing compared to what drives him now. Every step, every thrust, every stab and blow, carefully measured for the least amount of effort, methodically mowing through their foes like through a field of grass. Praying for their immortal souls, as he can do nothing to redeem their mortal bodies.</p><p> </p><p>Their deaths are fast though, each of them, the immortals will not become darkness to safe the light. But it is a thin line, this time… And once the battle ceases, Nicolo feels himself tumbling. Giving in to primal rage would be so easy, let the beast guide him, just let go and forget, what made him hesitate, what made him human. Forget about prayer, forget about God.</p><p> </p><p>It would be so easy to justify it. Those are evil men, who have done evil things… Only the constant reminder, that, once you started, you cannot easily stop falling, keeps him sane, but he is trembling with restrained emotion, standing within a ring of dead bodies, when the battle is over. Yussuf is just as shaken, just as feral, unable to give comfort, unable to catch even himself. It falls to Andromache to lead both men back to sanity, tether them.</p><p> </p><p>She starts with Yussuf, knowing, he is more likely to snap, though with less severe consequences. His emotions are closer to the surface, but he learned to deal with it.</p><p> </p><p>While Quynh guards the perimeter, just to make sure, she steps next to him, talking softly in the ancient Arabic dialect of his birth country… and time of birth. Nicolo wouldn’t understand it, even if he was listening, and he isn’t, but it helps. Slowly, Yussuf lets himself get pulled into a short hug and nods to her whispers, when they part again.</p><p> </p><p>All the while, Nicolo holds onto his constraint with the sheer power of will. He doesn’t even know, what he would do, will do, when he breaks, only, that it won’t be pretty. Yussuf and Andromache are there, just in time… the former joins their foreheads, whispering endearments and calming sweet nothings, the latter steps behind Nicolo, putting her hands on his shoulders, massaging none to softly, until the tension ceases.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Nicolo exhales and nods, signing: “It’s alright, I got it.”</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They have almost finished cleaning the place up, dumping everything, they can’t make useful, including the bodies, into a nearby ditch, where they can burn it easily, without setting the whole area on fire.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo hates this work most, moving dead bodies around, facing his own deeds, the consequences of his fights. But he also deems it necessary to never forget, there are better ways than simply killing, and faces it with befitting gravity. Besides, simply leaving the scene of slaughter might draw retaliation to the locals.</p><p> </p><p>So, he helps patiently, removing everything, from a single arrow to the remnants of a tipped over carriage. With the latter one, he needs help, though, and so it is three of them, pulling the wooden frame back on its wheels. Underneath, they find a slightly roughed up and very alive man in mud-stained white monks robes, clutching the silvery crucifix around his neck with panicky devotion.</p><p> </p><p>He eyes each of them in turn, the supposed Morisco, the sure-to-be traitor, the alien-looking freak-woman and the one, very much not knowing the place, women are meant for, his face slowly turning from terror to disgust and hatred. “You will all burn in hell…”, he spits out, either completely understanding or completely misjudging the situation. “Every murder brings you closer to its suffering, and there will be no redemption for the likes of you.”</p><p> </p><p>It hits a strange string in Nicolo he had just put to sleep. He wants to scream into this all to self-content face, that <em>his</em> work is no less murder, that he is just as guilty, if not more. Unfortunately, this isn’t likely to happen, and sign language combines two major disadvantages in this situation. Of course, the priest wouldn’t understand any of it, and it doesn’t feel very freeing either, forcing him to cook in the poisonous rage, he can’t express.</p><p> </p><p>He clenches his fist and watches Andromache take the lead once more. She simply pulles the monk up to his feet and grins fake-happily, guiding him into the center of the group. “I was told, an important part of your religion is about forgiveness…” There, she holds him still, exchanging questioning looks with each of them. “Forgive me, if I am not impressed, by your attitude…”</p><p> </p><p>As Nicolo follows her gaze, it is quite clear, Quynh simply wants it done. No questions asked, no strings attached. He is a liability, and he deserves death, been there, done that. Yussuf is a lot less callous about it, tries to balance anger with compassion, but ultimately reaches the same decision. The monk needs to die, and the world might be better for it.</p><p> </p><p> Nicolo himself is conflicted. Not about the outcome, really. They could afford no witnesses, and he is exactly the kind of man, they need to target. But about the reasons. Can he simply condemn a human being to death, defenseless and incapable as he is? Can he just watch him die, without even offering a chance of redemption? Wouldn’t that put him on the same page, making him accomplice to the slaughter, they still encounter to often for their good conscience?</p><p> </p><p>Silently, he places himself in front of the monk, just outside his reach, but well in his sight, asking silently for Yussuf to translate him, word by word, into Latin. Usually, his love isn’t so fast to comply, but there might be something in Nicolo’s eyes, that makes him realize, this is important. Not for the doomed monk, but for him and in extent, for all of them.</p><p> </p><p>“You stand here, about to encounter the face of God and receiving his judgment.”, Yussufs deep, warm voice sings the words, he cannot say aloud, continuing to ask question, that would in turn lure out all the traditional phrases of confession… The time of the last confession, the sins, the request for compensation and forgiveness.</p><p> </p><p>It is hard to go through with it, with all the filth and curses, the monk throws into his face, changing languages from Latin to Castiliano to something different entirely, each time he lacks ideas on how to go on. Several times he needs to stop, just to breath, just to calm down and keep his face understanding and compassionate, as a confessor should.</p><p> </p><p>It is however also strangely soothing. It removes him from what the monk wants him to be and sets him into the role, he chose for himself. He stays still, until Yussuf finishes, still as unswayed as Nicolo himself tries to be. “I absolve you of all the sins, you confessed and recommend your immortal soul to the Lord, Jesus and all the saints.”</p><p> </p><p>In nomine patrii, et filii, and spiritu sanctii… He wished, he could say it himself. He wished, for once, it was possible. Not for the furious monk, who by now has left the plane of sanity, but for himself. Yet, praying aloud is only possible with very few people close by and the monk is none of them by any means. With a mouthed “Amen” he nods, and Andromache breaks the monk’s neck in one smooth movement, dragging him to the ditch, where everyone else ended up.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo falls to his knees, exhausted, but feels strangely lighter, breathing more freely and feeling more safe.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Father forgive me, for I have sinned.” What sins can a child confess? Respect thy elders, who beat you mercilessly on the slightest misstep? Do not steal the food before you, when you die of hunger? Do not envy your next whatever, when you have nothing at all and they in turn seem to own the world? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It is expected, though, and Nicolo accepts the necessity. At least, Fra Alba, does not carry a switch. In fact, Fra Alba always has an apple in his robe, slipping it to the child, he deems to need it most. They all come to church, when Fra Alba takes confessions. Until one day, he doesn’t. They all walk silently behind Fra Alba’s coffin, unseen, on the roofs of the houses, for nobody would like to see them there for real. And when the priest announces, that God took one of the best to be at his site, Nicolo believes it with all his heart.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As the immortals head for Granada, the last Muslim outpost on the Iberian peninsula, aware, that it won’t last any longer, they swear not to repeat old mistakes. This time, they won’t just wait until it happens and deal with the fall out then. This time, they know beforehand. This time, they can prepare…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Suffering for love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yussuf faces a severe crisis of faith, forcing Nicolo into action.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A little longer this time and I hope, a good addition. We are getting somewhere.  I hope you like it. Let me know,  what you think</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The landscape of southern Iberia is different from all places Nicolo has known before. In times, it reminds him of the Holy Land or Greece, with the dry, sandy grounds, the olive and citrus trees, with the small white houses and the long ranges of brown and orange mountains.</p><p> </p><p>The strange mixture of cultures though, is unique. You find churches, some airy and sweet, some fortified and almost threatening, nearly everywhere. Each more richly decorated and frequented than the last. Each surrounded with an almost unhealthy degree of worship. Yet, you cannot simply ignore the remnants of other influences. The houses look less European than they should, the gardens are often decorated with white and blue tiling, enclosed by beautiful stone weaves in delicate patterns.</p><p> </p><p>Even the people, no matter, how much they claim to be good Christians, oftentimes resemble the same dark beauty, Nicolo finds in his beloved, dark-skinned, curly hair, long, strong lines in limbs and face. It makes Nicolo dream, how it could be, when for once, everyone forgot about the differences and instead embraced the similarities. How peace could look like… Even if reality is so much harsher.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf on the other hand struggles. Every single of these houses means a family got expelled from their home or forcedly converted. Each house means so much pain and suffering. To him, he tells Nicolo in secret, the whole country is scattered with tombstones of broken dreams and promises. He feels the remnants of torture and loss, the people in this land carry, hiding them from everyone, even from themselves, if they can.</p><p> </p><p>The closer they get to Granada, the last resort for Muslims in this country, the harder it gets for him, the more he loses his footing. The obvious signs of a war in preparation send him into shock each time a little more. The broken-down Mosques leave him just shy of weeping.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo tries his best to help him, sharing his affection more freely than is probably advisable, judging by the dirty looks he receives from everyone around. When he hugs his beloved or just cups his cheek or kisses his brow, they scowl, but he doesn’t care. Appeasing the fears in his lover is more important than catering to the prejudices of bigots.</p><p> </p><p>Their looks are less painful than Yussuf’s rejection. Nicolo tries to understand, he just needs space, when Yussuf pulls away from his embrace. That he must deal with a lot, when he avoids joining Nicolo in his sleep. That he just needs time to come around, when Yussuf doesn’t even look at him for days.</p><p> </p><p>“I think, it’s the crusades… when he died first”, Andromache once whispers in his ear and squeezes his shoulder comforting. But that aside, she can’t do much either, only watch, how the beautiful, happy, outspoken man falters into himself and withers under the pressure of a trauma never fully processed and about to repeat itself before his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>It is a good thing, Nicolo rarely does the sign of the cross anymore, preferring to pray in a silence of hands as well as words, it delays the explosion for a long, long time. When Yussuf can’t perform his rituals of faith, he withholds as well, denies himself the easy comfort, preferring to stay by his side, no matter how badly it hurts.</p><p> </p><p>It only works so long… One day, when once again, the traditional time for Dhuhr goes by, with too many eyes on them, Yussuf catches him, the lips moving in silent reverence. Does it matter, if Nicolo was praying in Latin or in Arabic? Does it matter, that he does not need to adhere to any traditional moves? Does it matter, he was forced to hide his faith just as long as Yussuf on other occasions?</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf just snaps, screaming all the bitterness and pain out, directing all his aggression to the only person, willing to offer a target. The words are harsh and get even worse, the longer they go on, Nicolo just taking them, with no gesture of defense, not even raising a hand. Silent, eternal, accepting. The eyes closed, so he does not need to watch, so Yussuf won’t see his eyes glistening.</p><p> </p><p>A martyr to his love. A silent lament of the cruel division between their faiths. A traitorous saint, willing to lay down his very belief for his beloved to tread on.</p><p> </p><p>When Yussuf falls silent, leaves to regain his control, a hard scowl, still on his face, he allows himself to break too, accepting Quynh’s sympathetic embrace steadying him, so he can go on, when he must.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf acts as if he isn’t sorry, and Nicolo acts as if he didn’t care. But in the silence of the night, woken up by nameless nightmares and the unfamiliar cold at his back, he asks himself, if this is, how love dies. Silently withering away under the pressure of too much emotion and too little care.</p><p> </p><p>Pacing and crying so silently, not even Andromache wakes up. And finding, he loves Yussuf no less, but even more, his vulnerability, the care needed establishing them as equals. He may cry, he may repeat the cruel words in his head, he may be crushed under the weight of their distance, but he would do it all over again and more, just to make sure, Yussuf is alright.</p><p> </p><p>Usually, Andromache joins him, just before dawn, offering small signs of affection, knowing, he is no man of great gestures. This time around, he confesses to her, signs in the emerging light of the sun, what is on his mind, finds reassurance in her approval.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It is the same pattern everywhere. Those different, those standing out are rejected, avoided, scolded for the smallest of mistakes. All the worse, if they can be set apart easily. Nicolo’s eyes and his muteness see to that unerringly. The fact, he wears the gear of a Bedouin, and obviously a poor one, doesn’t help either. But Nicolo is nothing if not humble, when it’s necessary, asking at each caravansary, every inn for lodgings for a few days. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Most would take him for the night, good coin provided, but his eyes and his signing make them uneasy, he does not quite fit. And then, it’s time for prayer, everyone taking their prayer rug, submitting to the traditional procedure, bowing and rising in sync. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Nicolo, still insecure in the just recently learned ritual, falls behind… A little late each time, because he needs a cue, where everyone else but the smallest child just knows. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>When he rises among the believers, he just knows. He can see it in the hardness of their eyes, the warded nature of their gestures. The distrust is palpable and dangerous. Already he can see, the young men whispering in the background, deciding.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A hand lands on his shoulders, turning him around. “Come young friend… You have travelled a long way and must be weary. I’d be honored to have you as my guest. My name is Mahmoud.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another week, another, smaller outbreak, another pain, another scar on his heart. He would scream and rage, if he just could, yet the source of his hopes and sorrows is now close all the time, as they are nearing Granada and can’t afford to let one of them get caught by inquisition or Reconquista forces. Nicolo seeks comfort in the smiles, Quynh and Andromache grant him, the way, they give him small touches, when Yussuf doesn’t see and will lash out yet again, the memories of unconditional acceptance and love.</p><p> </p><p>It is hard and gets harder every time. And still, it is not the thought of his well-being that haunts his waking hours. Yussuf seems to get more tense, more closed by the day, by the hour. Maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea to come here, after all, even in the improbably case they can prevent another massacre. And they will need to be at their best to do so… Which they aren’t… at all.</p><p> </p><p>Quynh, so reckless in times of necessity, calls them out, before something gets broken beyond repair. They are resting in the shadow of another destroyed dome, another halfmoon on the ground, when she approaches Nicolo first. “You know, you can’t go on like that much longer, sweet thing, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo just shrugs and sighs sadly, signing reluctantly: “If I could change a thing, I would…”</p><p> </p><p>“Just as I thought…”, she quips and smiles enigmatically, almost happily patting his shoulder, and then going straight to Yussuf instead.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo stumbles after her, futilely grabbing at her shirt… Once Quynh has made up her mind, she is an unstoppable force, knowing no good nor evil. She places herself right in front of Yussuf, measuring him, head to foot and scoffing. “So, there… You seem tense today… Will it be Nicolo again, or will you try one in your own league today?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo tries to prevent the inevitable, pulling at Quynh, who does not want to be moved… and therefore doesn’t. Tries to place himself between them, only to be pushed out of the way by his beloved, while he already starts shouting at the smaller woman.</p><p> </p><p>She though pays back in equal coinage, resulting in a screaming match extending over half an hour and half a dozen or more different languages. Profanities are replaced by accusations are replaced by bitter truths. Quynh rips Yussuf right open, tearing every misconception and delusion into the unkind light of her attention. Nicolo did just take the beating, whenever Yussuf turned to aggression instead of facing his fears, Quynh not only fights back, she is an opponent he cannot even hope to match, with a tongue and mind even sharper than her arrows.</p><p> </p><p>She is so painfully unerring at finding the weaknesses, prying at the festering wounds, Nicolo just standing aside feels almost compelled to defend Yussuf against her. Yet, he can’t. It is for the best, it needs to be done, this pain is as necessary as his own to get to this point.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo can tell, when the armor breaks, the walls fall. It’s nothing obvious, a single tell, just a feeling… and a faint one at that. Yet, he is by his side just in time, when Yussuf’s voice breaks, his knees fall weak, he just slumps down, crying.</p><p> </p><p>He can see Quynh retreating, her face strangely calm, determined, content. She gives him a nod and disappears, leaving it to him to pick up the pieces and mend, what needs repairing. Which he does, and with joy. He takes Yussuf into his arms, kneeling by his side, softly stroking his back. The words, beautiful flowing Arabic, come all by themselves, whispered into his ear, as he whispers them to his beloved. “Have no fear, I am at your side. You will never stand alone. I am at your side, no matter, if you love or dance or fight.”</p><p> </p><p>At first, Yussuf is no more than a wooden figure in his embrace, cold, motionless, unyielding. Even resisting at times… but the whispers of his mother’s tongue, a gift from his lover’s lips, melt away the reluctance.</p><p> </p><p>First, his fingers twitch against Nicolo’s chest. Soon, he leans against his body, his arms wander all by themselves to return the favor of an embrace, softly caressing Nicolo’s back. He trembles but strengthens in the reassuring presence, all the fears and anger flowing out with the tears. Nicolo can feel him calm and relax.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually he rises, taking Nicolo with him, without breaking the embrace. “I’m sorry”, he whispers, again and again. “I was in the wrong to hurt you…. I am sorry…”, the melody of the first words, they really share. Secret to them and them alone… Hidden even from their sisters, hidden to the world.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I love you, child. I love you, I love you… A disembodied voice, echoing in his ear, when the initial words are long gone. He knows no image, no face, no eyes. Even the tone of the voice gets lost in time, but not its existence. For a long time, it’s the only voice ever speaking to Nicolo, not about him, knowing nothing of his shortcomings and misdeeds, demanding nothing, just whispering. I love you child. Putting him to sleep, when he is hurt or scared or hungry or alone. He doesn’t so much remember it, it just stays with him, as he needs it, washed up on the shores of his unknown past, comforting the lonesome child.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>On the same page again, the four of them sit around the fire and talk, no longer disabled by anger and false assumptions. They combine their knowledge of Christianity and Islam, of the land and the people, until they reach a decision. Then, Andromache stands up, delightedly stretching her shoulders and back. “Fine, let’s pull another Ugra…”</p><p> </p><p>They leave the camp and split to their respective targets.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo bows softly before the king and queen, it is a familiar gesture by now, he is summoned often, for the queen is quite fond of him. Their “sad, handsome priest”, so knowledgeable on the rituals and customs of Islam, is such a good adviser, when it comes to Granada, predicting most of the answers, they received from Sultan Boabdil, before the messages even arrived. He claims to have learned about it in the holy land on his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, claims as well, his voice died from the crushing boot of a heathen. Andromache, his trusted translator, is well-received too, making the king blush, whenever he looks at her, although his advances are probably innocent, as he is faithfully married.</p><p> </p><p>She speaks up, when he signs, both easily mending each other’s mistakes, to guide the royal couple. “Your Majesties, we received word from our contacts in Granada. The sultan is willing to surrender the city to you, as soon as the people will allow it, under the agreed terms.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not mentioned that no man will die on the walls of Granada. It’s not mentioned that no families will be ripped from their home, no mothers will get their children dragged from their arms, nor streets will be drenched in blood.</p><p> </p><p>The inquisition will spit hellfire, when they realize, the Muslims of Granada, even the converts, are out of their reach.</p><p> </p><p>If only Yussuf can keep the Sultan in check. If only he can make the citizens of Granada see the wisdom in this decision.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The day, Granada falls, is a day of sadness for many. The dream of a Moorish Iberia is over. The sultan abdicated. The city is under Christian law. Some don’t trust the treaty and leave for good. Some will expose themselves to prosecution. Some will stay.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a day of joy for the immortals. No slaughter stains the beauty of the great halls of the Alhambra. No trees, full of oranges and pomegranates are hewn, nor lives cut short. And deep within the suq of Granada, hidden away in a small room, above one of the small shops there, Nicolo celebrates his reunion, with his long-lost heart, worshipping and being worshipped in return, this time without shame, without guilt, without hesitation.</p><p> </p><p>And as the moans and gasps fill the air, he can whisper unhindered, and flowing: “I love you, I love you, I love you…”, in Arabic, in Ligurian, in the tongues that matter to them… no louder than breathing and still understood.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And... A little bonus for those, paying attention... I really wanted to go back to Mahmoud.<br/>But unfortunately I have to admit, the treaty of Granada was relatively short-lived... sad thing, that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Education</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fleeing from Iberia, the immortals part and Nicolo and Yussuf seek new knowledge in Florent</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one was really hard for me, and I think, I failed in properly addressing the passing of time. This chapter spans at least a year, I think. Maybe I will make some adjustments, once I have an idea. For now... enjoy. I hope the next chapter will come easier, now, that I have my other longer story finished.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the fall of Granada, they leave Iberia behind. The suffering of the people does not end, the inquisition is far from finished, the sounds of pain do not cease. But they can go on no longer. The danger of exposing themselves to big, the strain, especially on Yussuf and in extent Nicolo to great. It’s been almost ten years of constant fighting of the inevitable, with no lasting advantage achieved… Only the safety of the city gives them any sense of victory, the one big success, they could create.</p><p> </p><p>And the closeness of his once home pulls Nicolo forward. It has been quite some time, since he visited last, more than one lifetime. It might be painful to see, how little of what he remembers remains, but he longs for the gentle climate, the familiar language, the blooming of education that, if rumors are to believed, by now mirrors or even exceeds that of the Muslim universities.</p><p> </p><p>And after all, it is just one smooth ride on a sailing ship away, the salty sea wind and the constant spray of azure water waking all kinds of beautiful memories, spread over several lifetimes, from the very start of his journey in the harbor of Genova. Sharing it with his beloved now, their distance resolved, their common language found, is a beauty unmatched even by those fond memories.</p><p> </p><p>Italy’s beauty welcomes him freely, sporting the bluest of skies, the bluest of seas. The familiar chatter in the harbor, familiar scents of dishes long forgotten. Nicolo finds it hard not to flutter around like a distracted butterfly, looking here, listening there.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, the other immortals are equally entranced by the beauty of his hometown, with its small narrow streets and alleys, it’s bustling markets, its green mountain range and memorable architecture.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>Andromache is already on the horse, only waving goodbye, as Quynh is still not done with hugging them both. But soon, they will both vanish beyond the city walls, eager to find some nice quiet area for a few weeks or months of doing nothing but eating oranges and olives, drinking wine, savoring each other’s company and live. Andromache is bored of the city and longs for some riding on bare horseback, some travelling, some movement, and besides: Nicolo and Yussuf are so sickeningly, inconsiderately sweet to each other, the mere look can rot one’s teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Staying behind and let their sisters have some rest is the only option. And no matter, how much they will miss them, it’s a nice one… having some time for themselves. Exploring each other and their passions.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>When Nicolo looks up, he can see Yussuf, busily guiding a charcoal pen over paper in long, sure strokes. He doesn’t though, he stays bend over the immense tome, he can read in the library of Florent on special dispense of the family of Medici themselves. Yussuf’s art seems to have impressed them well enough, and so his muse can keep himself busy, while he remains an honored guest.</p><p> </p><p>The Medici court is a reservoir of artist and scientists alike and so full of inspiration, he can see Yussuf’s talent spark up every day. He might feel a bit out of place, between all those highly educated people, but it’s worth it to see his beloved smile like the morning sun, when he finally mastered a technique or shout out in triumph on creating something to beautiful to describe it properly. Even his poems, in the local dialect, no less, are of such eloquent beauty, they leave even Nicolo’s thoughts speechless.</p><p> </p><p>And besides… This library lets him catch up at his education some, at least. History is easy but unfulfilling, Poetry, when reduced to its shreds, boring. How does Yussuf make it come alive, so it flows like song? Nicolo is at loss.</p><p> </p><p>Science on the other hand… It comes easily to him. Clear-cut words, principles, formulae. The more Nicolo reads, the easier it gets to imagine them. To build whole pictures in his mind. To work out, how the world works, and where God is pulling the strings. In its own way, it’s just as breathtaking as art. No… not as art. It is art. Just another kind of it.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo turns the pages, enticed by Greek mathematics, so astoundingly simple, once he understood the basic principles. Pythagoras, Euclid, Archimedes. If he can keep up his pace, he might even go on to the transcripts of Arabic works, Avicenna for example, who apparently also worked as doctor.</p><p> </p><p>He is so caught up in his studies, he doesn’t even notice, someone sits down next to him, until an elbow softly nudges his side. “Scusi.” Now, Nicolo looks up, a little taken aback, faced with the elegantly clad well-aged man, with long, greying hair and beard. “What is it, you are studying, boy?”</p><p> </p><p>Boy? Nicolo snorts harshly. He is easily twice the man’s age. And he can get away with his initial reaction, it’s so easy to mistake it for youthful arrogance. It’s impolite though, and so he moves away, allowing the man to have a look on his own.</p><p> </p><p>“Interesting. Basic mathematics. So, you will be a man of the sciences?” The man smiles friendly and somehow longing, the latter politely veiled. Nicolo can feel the attraction and interest, the other feels, but also his restraint, not to act on it. “I am Leonardo, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, he offers a hand, and Nicolo takes it, though hesitantly and shakes it once, before letting go. He dons a small smile, too, before returning to his book, leaving the stranger in confusion.</p><p> </p><p>Leonardo clears his throat, trying to regain balance, looking around, and for the first time registering Yussuf in the windowsill. A look is exchanged, and then his beloved comes over, grinning broadly. “I see, you met Nicolo.” On the awkward shrug of the local, he chuckles. “No worries. He likes you. He just doesn’t speak much.” Oh, what an understatement.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo looks up, too, gives an apologetic smile and returns to his book, while Yussuf engages a conversation with this Leonardo, that soon shifts from science and its practical uses to less material topics. Seems, Leonardo is not only a scientist, but also an admirer of beauty. He falls for Yussuf just as easy as for Nicolo and comments his art freely and with knowledge. Soon, Nicolo is surrounded by a flow of words and laughter.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Yussuf has made a new friend who introduces him to even more friends, some of them scientists, but most artists and artisans. Nicolo doesn’t know any of them and they seem to have no interest in him either. He is just like a vase of flowers or basket of apples, adequate for a sketch or two, but insufficient for any conversation. In the beginning he mostly accompanies Yussuf, when he meets with the painters and sculptors at the Medici court, but he cannot communicate and doesn’t get most of their jokes, lacking the background to get the difference between Greek and Roman whatever.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just plain boring and he joins less and less, but does not begrudge his love the company, even though his own, the library, is much less amiable. At least, the books don’t expect him to take of his shirt or stand in a certain position. All they expect is his undivided attention, when he wants to understand their wisdom.</p><p> </p><p>And the more he works with them, the easier it gets to understand each of them, as he makes friends in tomes and volumes. He gets a little lonesome, now and then, but the bustling streets of Florent help with that. Sitting in a busy cantina, eating and drinking, while intense life bursts all around him, is as much company as he needs. Or can handle.</p><p> </p><p>These days, though, whenever he looks up, there is someone else in the windowsill, where Yussuf sat in their first days in Florent.</p><p> </p><p>His name is Michelangelo and whenever Nicolo looks up, his face lightens up, granting Nicolo the most radiating smile, before returning to his book. Or sketch.</p><p> </p><p>Today, finally, he comes over, gathering his courage, sits down opposite to Nicolo and explains, what he actually wants. “You are beautiful, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo looks up, the corners of his mouth twitching friendly, but not very impressed, before returning to his book.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to do a real painting of you. Not just a sketch.” He places his hand very carefully on Nicolo’s forearm, alerting him once more of his presence. “Maybe… you want to have a look into my studio?” Under Nicolo’s less than appreciative gaze, he lifts the hand slowly, scratching his nape sheepishly.</p><p> </p><p>The immortal carefully takes a bit of paper from his notes, places it before him and scribbles very clearly: “I have no intent to go anywhere.”</p><p> </p><p>But what was meant to discourage the other merely sparks his interest. “Oh… so you can really write and read? You do not merely stay here to avoid the bunch of us?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo furrows his brow, honestly dumbfounded. The man has been watching him for hours of reading and assumed, he was just pretending to get rid of him? What in heaven? Annoyed he shakes his head and coughs, returning to the book that is much less of an insult.</p><p> </p><p>“Really, beautiful and intelligent. You are a small wonder”, the painter continues, disturbing his peace further.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo just exhales forcedly and grants another, rather unhappy look, before writing out: “Sketch or paint all you like, but I will go nowhere, will not pose, will not undress.”</p><p> </p><p>The painter is dissatisfied but lacks the leverage to make the immortal change his mind. Returning to his windowsill he continues his work, as Nicolo realizes, he will probably be back. He does not seem to be easily swayed.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf returns late and Nicolo leaves early. Sometimes they exchange less than a dozen words for the day. “I love you”, he signs, when he goes, but mostly, Yussuf is too tired to even notice, just grunting and turning around for some more hours of precious sleep. “I love you” is whispered into his ear, deep in the night, into his dreams, so he is never sure, if it was there.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Yussuf joins him in the library, doing some sketches or just plain daydreaming, but mostly it’s too quiet for his liking, he prefers the exchange with alike minds. They have promised each other a meal together each day, but the resolve is wavering. Breakfast is disqualified due to their quickly misaligning timetables. Dinner works, mostly, but only if Nicolo leaves his books behind and walks all the way back to their place. And supper. Well. By then, Yussuf is usually gone.</p><p> </p><p>And all the while, this annoying Michelangelo guy sits in the library, where Yussuf should be and scribbles and sketches, sometimes changing position, so he can have a better view at whatever he seeks. And for Nicolo’s opinion he comes all to close, at times, almost brushing him, when he comes and leaves, wearing expensive perfumes so intense, it is impossible to ignore them.</p><p> </p><p>One day, when Nicolo sits just there, eyes half closed, to figure some more complicated problem out, he eventually makes his move. “You seem so lonely.” He grins full of hope and suggestions. “I know, it’s sad, to be left behind. Just so you know, not all of us favor him…”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo stares at him, furrowing his brow. Clearly, he cannot seriously think that… But he obviously does.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d be kinder, you know? I’d care for you, never leave you behind, I’d protect you, you would never need to care for anything anymore. Would not need to learn all those things on in the vain hope to acquire enough knowledge to be of use.”</p><p> </p><p>Abruptly, Nicolo rises, his eyes burning pits of green fire, staring down on his opponent, emitting waves of deadly rage. It takes all his constraint, just to breath, and he can’t think, what is worse. The fact, that thinks, Nicolo is so easily swayed? That he can be bought like that? That his study is just for monetary purpose? Or that he believes him to thick to actually understand any of this?</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Nicolo clenches and unclenches his fist, until he feels safe enough to grab a quill and scribble furiously: “You better go now, before I do something, either of us might regret.”</p><p> </p><p>Michelangelo seems sincerely hurt by this and throws him looks of utter disappointment. How dare he? Only, when Nicolo, all warrior, just leaps over the table, murder in his eyes, the facial expression shifts to the fear, Nicolo certainly deserves. Coldly, he uses his distinctively greater physical presence to bully Michelangelo out of the library, anger still clearly painted on his face, when he sits back down, so clearly, the librarian, usually around to help him, stays out of sight all day.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo understands. It takes him time to calm down. He might not be able to show it like other man, but things like that don’t leave him unfazed. He will have to make abundantly clear he is not interested. And he will need to talk to Yussuf. No matter, how much he enjoys himself or how much he learned, it is time to leave. They start leaving tracks, they can’t afford.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The second, Nicolo walks through the door of his temporal home, he knows, something is severely wrong. Yussuf is present, and he is just as furious as Nicolo was, just this afternoon. Staying dangerously silent, he just slams the door behind Nicolo’s back, as soon as he enters, before heading to the simple bed, they share, and pulling something out under it. “Dare to explain to me, what this is?”, he all but whispers between clenched teeth, the lack of shouting more alarming then even his tense body language.</p><p><br/>
Nicolo takes a look and shrugs irritated at the sight of a canvas his face painted on it in meticulous detail, the rest of the intended nude still rather vague. “I don’t know”, he signs, carefully stepping back and studying his beloved intently.</p><p> </p><p>“I found it in Michelangelo’s studio…” Yussuf is still barely able to withhold the explosion, about to happen, but Nicolo isn’t afraid. He is worried. He can take Yussuf’s anger any time. But the signs of hurt and sorrow leave him helpless. “The bastard told me you would model for him. And more. Rings a bell?” The words are no harsher than others he received over their lifetime together, it’s the distrust, that hurts.</p><p> </p><p>He leans back against the wall, exhaling, before concentrating on his hands, signing, very cautiously: “How often will have to proof myself to you, before you fully trust me?” The moment, guilt appears on Yussuf’s face, he should stop. He feels it, it was all, that was needed. But he just can’t stop, the anger from the afternoon still to fresh, to many wounds on his heart still not fully healed, to many blows exchanged, to many open questions.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides, I, too, might have earned the right to ask some questions? Like: where are you all evening, and sometimes, night? Who are these Leonardo, Sandro, Giovanni, Filippo? How come, they are so much more interesting than me? And how come, you assume, I have been unfaithful but take the right to do just the same and more, without ever telling me anything?”</p><p> </p><p>With each sign, the gestures get bigger, more agitated, as he steps closer, up to the point, where they almost touch. Yussuf crumbles under the guilt, under the accusations, under the sudden and certainly unexpected rage. He has never seen Nicolo like this, never even known, he is capable of it. And he crumbles under the blows, as unfit to retaliate as Nicolo was in Iberia.</p><p> </p><p>But Nicolo isn’t blinded by ocean-deep sorrow and numbed by rivers of pain. He can see Yussuf breaking. He needs to make himself stop, he needs to… Words still flowing into his hands, like a broken dam, there is no way to stop. Only… one step, closing in, a kiss for the ages, burning like fire, catching his own hands in between their bodies, fury coming to an abrupt halt. Ever so carefully, he leans in, whispers into his beloved ears, what he meant to tell him, before he got carried away. “I love you. I will never leave you. I am yours. And you are mine.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, thanks for each comment, the warm my heart and help me lots.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Oaths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Departing from Florent, Nicolo and Yussuf find their paradise</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, thanks to my most helpful and friendly reviewers, you are the best. This chapter I dedicate to you, you will know why.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolo has no idea, what is more exhilarating, the soothing of reconciliation, of belonging and familiarity, the relaxed feeling the touches of his lover left behind on his skin, satiation already encasing the seed of renewed hunger, or the looks he gives him, while trying to catch this specific moment, this specific expression and ease, with the imperfect tools of his trade, charcoal and paper.</p><p> </p><p>He must see beauty there, long lost in Nicolo’s own perception, buried under the weight of guilt and shame, for his eyes gleam with affection. With a passion, he only ever reaches, when he is lost in the lyric flow of Arabic poetry. It makes him smile, as does the feeling to be truly loved, despite and above all flaws and injuries.</p><p> </p><p>In time, they each hurt the other, deeply and deadly, and Nicolo isn’t naïve enough to believe, it won’t happen again. But each storm anew makes him believe, their love is strong enough to withstand the time. Each storm ties them closer together.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you please lie still?”, Yussuf grumbles, carefully adjusting another line and chuckling, as he sees the mischief in Nicolo’s eyes, the secret challenge, asking: or else? Most days, Nicolo doesn’t mess up the sketches deliberately, but he knows all to well, Yussuf never gets this one right and will be less grumpy, if he can blame someone for it.</p><p> </p><p>Just, when he, very slowly, starts to pull the blanket back over him, provoking with every move and every expression in his face, there is an urgent knock on the door. Then am moment of silence, followed by another, similarly determined noise.</p><p> </p><p>Frowning, he stands up, donning a simple tunic, but Yussuf, already clothed is first at the door. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, and Nicolo begins to ask himself, what all this is about, then suddenly, a man is dragged into the room and pushed into one of the corners with significant force, faster, than Nicolo can react. Or recognize.</p><p> </p><p>Confused, he continues putting on trousers and a belt, all the while eying the newcomer, his face hidden by the hair, the clothing indistinctive. Yussuf however seems to know exactly, who this is, and is enraged. Positioning himself in front of the other, effectively pinning him to the wall, more roaring than speaking: “What do you want?” and “Haven’t you messed up enough?”</p><p> </p><p>Oh… it clicks. Michelangelo. It’s possibly best to intervene, before Yussuf does something, he might regret later, no matter, how much he wants it now. Slowly, still barefooted and with love-tousled hair, he moves to his side, placing his hand on top of Yussuf’s shoulder, shaking his head slightly, then pulling him back, very, very gently.</p><p> </p><p>And his beloved follows, displeased, but understanding. He lets Nicolo guide him to the simple chest, they use for their things and sits down on it, his breath calm and steady again. “Yes, you are right, that worm is not worth a murder”, he spits and grins disquietingly. Nicolo shakes his head in silent disappointment, signing: “You are better than that. Don’t disgrace yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>At that, he looks more than a little guilty and stays back, when Nicolo nears their unexpected guest to check, if he is injured. With a silent sigh, he offers his hand, to pull Michelangelo’s scared figure back into full standing.</p><p> </p><p>The artist still looks shaken, yet his eyes devour Nicolo with an intensity quite unadvised in Yussuf’s proximity. “I might have made a mistake…”, he utters, finally stretching and resettling his clothes. A simple gesture urges him to go on; Nicolo can converse quite effectively without words, if needed, but the artist is not yet willing to talk and stalls, busying himself with trifles.</p><p> </p><p>Worried, Nicolo looks back at Yussuf, who, as feared, is at the end of his patience, almost ready to pummel Michelangelo, until he can get a few answers. A few silent steps, putting distance between him and the displaced craving, he kneels before his love, cooling his mood with small caresses, innocent and warm, an undertaking, that is rewarded with a quick, passionate kiss to his temple. “I got it. I can hold back. Promise.”</p><p> </p><p>To that he nods and clears the path, for it will be easier for Yussuf to ask questions and get answers.</p><p> </p><p>Soon thereafter, despite the severity of the situation, Nicolo cannot help but smile at the thought of nervous abashment, on Michelangelo’s face, when he is forced the very man he crossed, what he had done. And how. That he thought, Nicolo was free, as his beloved seemed to show little interest. And just to make sure, it remained that way, he pushed a little here, shoved a little there, planted a rumor or three. A true renaissance man.</p><p> </p><p>Just making sure, his love interest’s supposed ex-love interest is occupied. Nicolo buries his face in his hands, when he hears, who exactly he tried to set up for Yussuf. He isn’t the best at the local politics, doesn’t understand, which member of the Medici family might soon offer an invitation not easily deflected, but the name is so omnipresent, here in Florent, he knows, they are in a severe pinch.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf seemingly draws the same conclusion, shouting some select words at Michelangelo, who, despite his undoubtedly considerable education, probably doesn’t understand half of them. Nicolo can’t help an involuntary smile. Strange, how even the vilest diatribes can sound like song from the lips of his beloved. Especially, when he gets inventive, regarding the man’s heritage.</p><p> </p><p>Before it can get out of hand again, though, he is back at his side, tilting his head in question. Yussuf nods, growling, if the painter has something to add, and on the negative answer, guides him unceremoniously out of their door, closing it audibly in annoyed dismissal.</p><p> </p><p>“What now?”, Nicolo signs, once he turns and sighs. Yussuf shrugs, throwing himself on the bed and grunting. “Now, I suggest, we get our pretty backsides out of here.” A brilliant idea.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>On a hunch, they don’t take their usual route out of a city, ignoring the gates. They have no horses just now, anyways, and going by boat is faster and less suspicious. Besides, it’s not yet time to meet up with Quynh and Andromache again, and they can do some exploring on the beautiful sea, they both share. Mare nostrum, nostra madre, indeed.<em><span class="u"> (I deliberately and strongly distance myself from the usage of that phrase in fascist Italy)</span></em></p><p> </p><p>The first ship, willing to take them both, without so much as second glance on the extraordinary pair heads for Malta, and one of the sailors tells them, laughing, the will fit right in, a note, they do not yet understand.</p><p> </p><p>What they understand, is the sea wind, the creaking of sails, the dance of the dolphins beside the ships bow. The sun, dancing on the sky and conjuring blindingly bright lights everywhere, where its beams touch the ocean. The green of the disappearing coastline, waving one last farewell, promising to wait for their return.</p><p> </p><p>Not knowing, what the sailors will think, they are as secretive as usual, only trading small signs of affection, that would do equally well for brothers. Or comrades. It’s a sad thing, they can’t risk more, but what might be acceptable in the company of artists, certainly isn’t out in the world.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>Malta is beauty untold. Even from afar, the arches of stone, creating the shorelines, welcome any visitors with what God created as art. The colors of water and sky, of stone and clouds, reflect in the paint of the hundreds of fisher boats in the harbor, combined with flashes of radiant red, yellow and white. The land is as dry as the south end of Iberia, vegetation consisting less of grass and flowers and more of succulent plants and cacti, yet the Mediterranean Sea is gentle, bathing it in a milder climate.</p><p> </p><p>The same goes for the remnants of Muslim culture, as they find out, when they first head into the city of Valetta. They are hidden under a heavy load of Christian architecture and culture, but they are present and accepted, not actively destroyed and vilified. Even the people look like a strange mixture, mirroring both sides of their beautiful sea equally.</p><p> </p><p>And the language. Arabic, Catalan, Italian, equally spoken, or mixed up in the melting pot of this island, so inseparable and entwined, no outsider can even hope to make sense of it – if he didn’t speak all three languages fluently.</p><p> </p><p>From the moment, they set foot on the island and are welcomed by its sounds, its places, its people, they feel at home. Both. For the first time in their life together, there is no suspicion in the looks of people seeing them together. No questions, how they ended up like that, no awkward politeness. It just is. And it’s real, not only for them, but for everyone here.</p><p> </p><p>Northern and southern Mediterranean are woven together here like braided strands of blond and dark hair.</p><p> </p><p>Malta is perfection, and they embrace it. Buying a small cottage just on the edge of the shoreline, in grave danger of toppling over the edge in a few years, when storm and sea and spray have finished their work with the rock. After all it’s not like they will be here anymore, when it eventually happens. Wandering around, discovering all the small paths, the previous owners created through daily work, up to a small spring of fresh-water to use for the garden, down to the beach for a swim in the morning, back to a bunch of Opuntia to harvest and eat prickly pears directly from the trunk.</p><p> </p><p>And making love. A lot. Researching all the different ways to make each other gasp and moan and groan. Uncovering new truths, neither of them knew of. Like that sweet spot, just below the navel, where Yussuf is all ticklish. Or the fact, that Nicolo is absolutely untiring, when being teased. The way, their bodies fit together in more than the traditional way. The fact, that just the breath of one’s lover after a fully satisfying meal can spark new hunger.</p><p> </p><p>It’s probably for the best, that their sisters are not present, for there is no room, no place, no time, safe from them, finding each other, again and again, finally settling the desire, built over so much heartbreak, so much time.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>From time to time, the go to the town, next to their little refuge, mostly, when they need something they can neither hunt, nor fish, nor grow themselves.</p><p> </p><p>Today, there is a celebration. Little children dance in the street. Music is played. There is food everywhere. Flowers. People are talking and singing, joking with each other. They are no strangers here, just guests.</p><p> </p><p>Their weak grasp of the local dialect makes them exotic, not suspicious. The boys ask for stories from beyond the sea, from the places, they have been, the battles they have fought, the tales, they encountered. And Yussuf can tell tales so beautifully, Nicolo just joins the gawping flock of adolescents, listening amusedly to their cheering after every tale and pleading for the next.</p><p> </p><p>When the church bells start ringing though, even they fall silent, watching a freshly married pair, walking out of the local church, both in their best clothes, traditional colorful garb, with lots of ribbons and jingling little trinkets. Everyone looks, everyone applauds. It’s such a happy, such a hopeful outlook. A beginning of sorts, a promise of eternity in its own way.</p><p> </p><p>We will never have that, Nicolo realizes, a little sad, looking at Yussuf. He does not share the same thoughts now, this is a very Christian ceremony. But maybe, he, too, has those thoughts from time to time. The inexplicable but overwhelming urge to bring their bond before God? To swear an oath to each other, gain God’s approval?</p><p> </p><p>The thought, once it takes root, lingers, for a long time. The whole week, he is less happy, keeps more to himself, despite Yussuf’s worried looks, after he had been so cheerful for quite some time. Yet, he needs to work it out. Needs to renew his bond with God, not doubting, he brought them together and will not withhold his blessing.</p><p> </p><p>And then, he understands. The both have left the mere letter of their religion behind. Neither sticks to the word anymore, they now follow the sense, the true meaning, leaving enmity and bigotry behind. Why should a word like marriage matter? What would traditional words really mean, when their own oath sworn to each other is so much more personal?</p><p> </p><p>He has left the rest of the ritual. He does not pray like most Christians anymore, received no sacrament for more than a life span, has given no confession, received no pardon. Yet, God remains firmly at his side. And will, truly, in this.</p><p> </p><p>Once made up his mind, he speaks with Yussuf. Not trusting his voice, even though it has been quite reliable lately, if it is only the two of them, he uses signs. A lot of them, explaining, asking permission, asking for understanding. And finding, his beloved on a similar path.</p><p> </p><p>They consider a church. A mosque. They decide against it. Both of it. They go down to the waterline, just before sunset, where God’s smile can be found in the lines of the clouds, God’s whisper in the constant wash of the waves. There, the kneel before God, swearing their everlasting faith, their unwavering loyalty and sincere respect to each other. The words, in some ways, mirror the traditional oaths of both their customary rites, while defying their restrictions. Yussuf comes first, speaking softly, but with his poem-trained voice, so clear, every word is a work of art. Nicolo, unsure of his ability in a moment of such weight, all but whispers, signing, too, just to be sure, nothing gets lost. But, albeit shaky, he makes it through the whole thing, never failing, and he smiles, shy, like on their first encounter. They have done it. They are one. Always will be, even when death does not flee them anymore. Forever. With a joyous fit of laughter, he pounces on his beloved, catching him into an embrace, stealing a million kisses. For once, happiness, indescribable.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The eternal Malta of course...</p><p>And why did nobody tell me the first line of this chapter was missing ;) *hides embarrassedly.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Foreboding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The immortals meander through Europe and end up in England, where they split once more.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the slow posting just now, with Germany back in lockdown, I have little time, when no sweet little distraction sits on my lap and wants mommy's attention. So I fear, for now, it won't get any faster again... But I am working on it. Promise. I haven't forgotten about all of you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolo knows, it’s time to leave the island behind, when they give a last goodbye to the sunbathed rocks of the harbor, from the back of their sail boat. It’s a bit sad to leave the place behind, knowing, it won’t be the same, when they return, but they can’t let their sisters wait any longer, and no matter how perfect Malta fitted Yussuf and him, he misses their sisters desperately, feeling the pull back to the mainland as surely as the sail feels the pull from the wind.</p><p> </p><p>Malta has changed him, as assured him of himself, given a sense of belonging independent of a single place, an occasion, a specific way of expressing love. Just now, even the fond look, Yussuf gives him, when the shoreline is finally lost to sight, sends small spikes of joy through him, just the way, how his lips curve, as if to say something, as if to kiss.</p><p> </p><p>He can make do with very little, while he is so full of love and joy and strength. And by the way, Yussuf just lingers by his side, their arms and legs just shy of touching, lest someone sees them, tells him, his lover feels the same. Lover… Nicolo ponders the word, finding it somewhat lacking. Yes, he loves Yussuf, with all his heart, but this is no longer the restriction of it. Love, a simple word, cannot encompass the waters they are sailing now. Cannot bridge the eternity they face together, the years, soon to be lifespans they shared.</p><p> </p><p>Whenever he closes his eyes, he is back at the shoreline, water lapping at his feet, words tumbling from his other half’s lips, words of beauty, of commitment, an oath, a pledge of a man and of destiny at once.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>The meetup with Quynh and Andromache is not as easy as they expected and it takes some quite some work to find them, although their sisters are so easily recognizable. It seems, they have made themselves as sparse as Nicolo and Yussuf did, for finally they find them in an old vinery, the ancient house shadowed by impressive chestnut trees and filled with shadows pleasantly cool against the Italian summer warmth. The steep heights of the vineyards filled with scents and sounds of summer. Of baked earth and grasshoppers, of sap and fruit.</p><p> </p><p>They can’t resist to stay longer, sharing another simple, yet fulfilling life, for a time. Strangely, knowing each of these ways, each of these great hardships and small joys, helps them, understand, what they want, what they were made for and why they are able and willing to go on helping, wherever they can.</p><p> </p><p>It also makes them see, it is not necessarily the big conflicts, changing the world. They can make great differences in small things, they do not always have to go to war each and every time. So that is, what they do, for some time, once they leave Italy.</p><p> </p><p>Meandering through Europe, stopping here and there, studying the new art of book printing, visiting the great universities, that are founded everywhere now, spreading knowledge and ideas all over the countries. Hunting robbers and murderers, righting wrongs, punishing evil, where the law is blind or bought. It’s a good life and for decades, they are just… happy. Surprisingly.</p><p> </p><p>Their bodies are well, their consciences sleep comfortably, their unity is undisturbed. It’s a good life.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>They have avoided England for a long time, because neither of them spoke the language well. But for the last few months they journeyed with a company of Scottish travelers, back from a pilgrimage to Rome. Those don’t speak English either, not by their own account and certainly not by the account of the English sailors, bound to ferry them over the channel, but it resembles English enough to be understood, if barely. Or drunk, as they find out, their first evening on the ship.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately they also find out, there is desperate need for them on the island, as the sailors dolefully tell them, their country evolves some bigot and alarmingly dangerous hiccups. It’s like the basic call to arms for the immortals. People in need, a government going haywire, a lot of space in the gaps to be filled. Sounds all too familiar not to hear the battle drums.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>London is, if anything, a catastrophe waiting to happen. Again. So many people in so close quarters are an invitation for a varying amount of plague, violence or fire. All of it has happened before and, showing that the human race as a whole is a very slow learner, will happen again. Even now, then and again, typhoid fever rages in the quarters of the poor and weak, not to mention syphilis, tuberculosis and a bunch of other unpleasant surprises for the life expectancy.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, Nicolo has been to big cities before, but most of them were in or around the Levante, where religion all but dictates a certain amount of cleaning. Being confronted with “the unwashed masses” brings out very unwelcome reminders of his childhood, where bathing was a once-in-a-year occurrence. And the smell. Oh the smell. Despite the fact, that dedicated carts transport a major amount of human product out of the city every night, the mere proximity of well… everyone, achieves a cocktail of smells that leaves him dry heaving on first contact.</p><p> </p><p>The others are no better off. Andromache and Quynh are so appalled, they want to leave the city immediately, despite the fact that there is a need to meet some people, the sailors told them about. People who might want to leave for the new world and in exchange for some help on the way, might help them understand this specific conflict a little better.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo understands… He literally grew up in filth like this and is nauseated, his sisters were raised in the wild, were the worst smells were that of decay, never permeating a bigger area and never for quite so long. And if they ever got unbearable, they could be left behind. But here… the whole city smells like that, in differing amounts… There is no way to get away from it, it sticks to clothing, hair, the very skin. So he suggests, they part ways for another while, Yussuf, who is as unhappy as them, but would never leave him, and Nicolo remaining in London, until they have their potential helpers – and seekers of help – sorted out, Andromache and Quynh already leaving for the country to get a first impression of the rural areas and learning more of the country’s language.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>There is decisions, you regret immediately and learn to live from there. There is decisions, which are the choice between pest and cholera from the start. There is decisions, which, despite being unfortunate, turn out for the best.</p><p> </p><p>This is neither. This is… horrible. It’s been only two weeks. Two simple weeks. Going for the harbor, figuring out transport for three families to France, without raising suspicion. Assisting in sorting out all they owned to decide what to sell and what to keep and take with them. Transporting it all to the ships. Two weeks shouldn’t be enough to lose the trail of Andromache and Quynh like that. It shouldn’t be possible.</p><p> </p><p>But here they are, trudging through the countryside, seeking hints of their sisters, realizing, there is none to be found. What in God’s name has happened to have them vanish so completely of the map?</p><p> </p><p>Silently conversing with Yussuf, Nicolo revisits all information he knows. Andromache and Quynh have left London as planned, heading north and buying horses just outside the city. The passed through a whole bunch of villages that scatter the countryside, causing quite some annoyance, two women, riding alone, in improper clothing and riding like men. It was easy to make the local farmers talk, if they only feigned similar sentiment. The further from the city though, the harder it gets. Nicolo can’t ask on his own and outside of London’s immediate outskirts Yussuf’s dark complexion is just as unusual as two women riding.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, the further away from London, the less villages they encounter, the more likely the people to not talk to them at all. Not even the usually safe haven of the church does work over here, as religion is a mess in this country. It is not catholic anymore, or so they claim, though a lot of similarities remain. It is certainly not orthodox like on the Balkan, but it also differs from the strange new Christians calling themselves Protestant or Lutherans. Or Calvinists… Or…</p><p> </p><p>Well, maybe it is not so different after all, as the same confusion over what is right and what is wrong can be found on both sides of the channel. The same irritation of the clerics in Rome, the same misconceptions, the same turmoil, the same distrust. The mother church in all its errors – and by now, Nicolo is able to see plenty – proofs to have one thing, all the others lack. Unity. And with it, safety. The small people don’t understand, how it is important, when to christen someone, as a child or as an adult. They have no interest in the question on who should receive what part of the Communion. And their only interest in the question, if the holy mess should be read in Latin or the local language is that the latter might be a bit more entertaining… Or disturbing. Depending on the priest.</p><p> </p><p>The only thing, this discord achieves for them, is the feeling of insecurity, as they never know, what is expected of them. It leads to superstition, it leads to divergence, it leads to all the things, Nicolo hates about the church. All the things, they left behind just a few decades prior in Iberia. How can this happen again, how can men be so stupid?</p><p> </p><p>The revelation however reinforces the feeling of concern and urgency. In such climate, Andromache and Quynh <em>aim</em> to displease. Andromache would never let injustice stand, and since Iberia, Quynh has a very special hell reserved for hypocrites and bigots…</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf is already in their room, tired of the company, of the dirty looks and whispered offenses; these days, he doesn’t handle company very well. Sick with worry, he can spare little restraint for the stupidity of people.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo on the other hand… He can’t stand the silence of the room, can’t handle the dark hours, when Yussuf struggles with the blankets in his sleep, a constant source of unrest at his back. He stays up long, until he is too tired to care, too exhausted to notice. He stays down in the inn, listening to all the whispered and shouted conversations. All the stories and rumors…</p><p> </p><p>He smiles into his ale to a lengthy story of coaxing some rich merchant’s wife into a tryst, until something else catches his attention. “Witches?”, someone exclaims, louder than he intended and laughs unbelieving.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo draws closer, just a little, eyes the man and his companions, his brow furrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I swear… The priest tried to exorcise them, and they spit utter poison at him. They say, he all but died!” The second man grins apologetically, as if he knows, how unlikely his story sounds, but at the same time, his eyes are dark and scared, widened with noticeable terror. “They tried to hang them, I saw it myself…”</p><p> </p><p>A third man, a third voice. “It’s not unheard of, that it takes time to die on the gallows… If the executioner…”</p><p> </p><p>“No,no…”, the narrator intercepts. “It was nothing like that… They flapped around like beheaded chickens for half an hour, but when the rope was removed, they weren’t even hoarse, shouting something to each other in strange tongues…”</p><p> </p><p>Icy coldness slowly slides down Nicolo’s back. It takes all his restraint to stay put and listen. To check the narrator for hints of his origin. For things to remember him, so they will find him to ask some serious questions…</p><p> </p><p>On second thought… He takes a look around, then removes himself from his bench, disappearing momentarily to go and get Yussuf. He needs to hear this, see this… Get the guy, before he can disappear.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Never in his life he would have compared Yussuf to a snarling dog. Especially since, despite his distance to the blank teaching of his religion, his beloved still had a rather strained relation to this kind of animal. But for the moment, the analogy is quite fitting.</p><p> </p><p>The poor journeyman, who told the story so fitting of their missing sisters, is close to soiling himself, under the cold stare full of teeth. “Where did you see the witches?” He doesn’t even touch the man yet, for none of them knows, what would happen then, but none wants to risk it.</p><p> </p><p>The journeyman is very forth-coming, hastily explaining, while Nicolo very slowly, very carefully puts a hand on his beloved forearm, whispering softly: “Leave him be. It is not him, you want to punish.”</p><p> </p><p>Still, he almost needs to pull Yussuf back, when the man is finished and can provide no more information, no more details to appease the raging fury of the immortal. Worried, Nicolo whispers to him, waving the journeyman away urgently, when Yussuf eventually breaks eye contact.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, when they retreat to their room to plan, he holds him in his arms for hours, until the tension dissipates, the anger fades away. Yussuf needs a rational mind, not this feral rush of energy, if they don’t want any more exposure than they already have…</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So... everyone knows, what's to come. Or do you? ;)<br/>I think, I will be able to give it my own spin. At least, I hope. Stay tuned...<br/>As always: thanks to my so very nice and helpful commentors, I am happy about each of you and hope, you will remain here until the end, maybe 2-3 more chapters...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Endings and beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The loss of a pebble results in an avalanche, one that reaches into the future. </p><p>Until the end... At least the preliminary.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope, this will be, what you need. It is, what I needed.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolo’s stomach lurches, when he sees her, and he is more than happy, Yussuf is not likely to join him on the roof of this particularly fortified church. He wouldn’t be able to stay in the dark, to just watch, not do something rash. Andromache looks like a shadow of herself, down there, chained to the ground, in a circle of torches, dirt clinging to her like the blanket she lacks, her clothes torn to shreds, barely concealing her too skinny frame and the past remnants of injury, bloody crusts, dried on her skin.</p><p> </p><p>The worst, though, the terrible, unthinkable is, that she is alone. Quynh is nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found, no matter, how hard they tried. They have not yet figured it out. But when they will, there will be death. That, Nicolo is sure of. He just isn’t sure quite yet, who will deal it. The cold scare lodged in his guts tells him, he might be the one. And wouldn’t that be a mercy? For surely, if Andromache is to deal it, then heaven will cry, and hell might find itself to be a place on earth.</p><p> </p><p>For now, he forces himself into non-action, only assessing the situation rationally, cool. Counting the guards, making note of each entry point, scouting out every possible exit, every shadow, every make-shift weapon, every single stone that could be relevant later on.</p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to go on breathing slowly, stop his hands from shaking, his body from trembling, so he can move quietly again, a shadow among shadows, inconspicuous, unseen.</p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to move away, back down the outside of the church, back into Yussuf’s arm, though he cannot stand his look, his questions, his embrace just now.</p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to walk away slowly, having his beloved in tow, moving, ever moving, so he does not have to think just yet. Not, where they can be heard, not where they can be seen, not were his carefully scouted out circumstances could change any minute, if they act stupid.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, he forces himself to turn, to meet Yussuf’s eyes, when they are far enough outside the damned, and possibly doomed, little town, that had the insolence to put Andromache of Scythia into chains.</p><p> </p><p>“Are they in there?”, Yussuf asks, his tone full of worry, his face going cold, when Nicolo doesn’t clearly nod or shake his head, merely twitches uneasily. With uncontrolled and accidental harshness his hands clench around Nicolo’s shoulders, hard enough to leave marks on a skin that wouldn’t heal so fast. “Are they?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo looks away, words fail him, once again, only a dry cough escapes his throat. He very carefully removes Yussuf’s hand, putting enough space between them to light up the lantern he carries and sign properly. For once blurry, the signs bleeding into each other, he explains: “I found only Andromache. Still no trace of Quynh.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to see the horror in his beloved’s face, he can still feel it clearly on his own skin. He breathes slowly, as if not affected, looking into the darkness, back to the lights of the town, until he can muster up the strength to continue: “I know how to free her. She will have some answers. I hope.”</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf’s hands are back on his body, this time, not hurtful though, but softly stroking, soothing, comforting. “We will find her. They will be ok.” A hug and a soft kiss to his brow, before, restraining his urgency, asks: “So… how do we do it?”</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, carefully, Nicolo eases the bow through the loophole in the roof of the church, before flexing it, attaching the string. The arrows on his back have been thoroughly fixed, so they don’t produce a single noise. With almost aching precision he aims for his first target, not even slightly sorry, it will be a symbol of his faith, tumbling to the ground, producing the necessary sound to distract the guards. He counts his breath, one, two, hold, shoot, release. A clatter can be heard, turning the heads of men in sync. One, two, hold… a man falls to his knees, wheezing, a single, perfectly placed arrow sticking from his neck. Slightly turning, buying Nicolo valuable seconds to place a second, a third, a fourth arrow.</p><p> </p><p>Not all sit perfectly and soon, despite the shadows under the roof sheltering him from view, the guards see him, start taking cover, start searching for a way to get him. Helping their own doom, they aren’t silent, providing the signal, Yussuf was waiting for, outside. Dislodging the bar, keeping the door close, wouldn’t go unnoticed under normal circumstances. But another rain of arrows, mostly barely and once not at all missing, provides sufficient diversion.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo has no time to check, if the other shadow, his partner in crime is already inside, but trusts him without doubt, abandoning the bow and finding his own way onto their battlefield. Before he even reaches the ground, he can more feel then hear the chocking of another death, somewhere to the left. The guards notice it too, strive to get there, assuming it is him again.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t though. And again, he swoops down, silently as an angel on owl wings, dispatching judgement with practiced ease. He doesn’t really see the faces, doesn’t really feel their demise. But surely, those are the lucky ones, going in a rush, before Andromache gets her turn on them, clean and fast. This isn’t cruelty. In a way, it is mercy, for if he even allowed himself to think, give a single consideration to their doing, he wouldn’t be able to choose silence over anger anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Soon, all guards are down, dead or dying, mute, in any case, more silent than Nicolo even. Yussuf goes for Andromache, hoping to find their sister under the feral anger and despair, her howling on their approach shows. Nicolo instead goes for the tabernacle, neither doubting, nor hesitating, when he opens the compartment. This is no house of God anymore, but has been desecrated by other powers. It is sad, but eases his discomfort away, as if it wasn’t even there.</p><p> </p><p>In there, close to the altar bread and wine chalice, he finds the keys to the chains, keeping Andromache in place. He looks down at it, crucifix-symbols, bands in purple, red and green and rosary attached and all. As if the icons of belief could conceal the evil, this thing depicts. His fists clench around it, until the knuckles are stark white, but he wastes no more time to join Yussuf’s side, humming one questioning sound. His beloved holds Andromache in his arms, both comforting her and restricting her struggling motions, whispering emphatically into her ear. When Nicolo approaches, he nods, allowing him to release her from the cuffs and collar, but keeping her limbs in check, until they can drag her away, out into the night, away from this place, so she can rest, scream, rage, fight, to find back to herself.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>It takes days for Andromache to reach anything resembling conscious thinking. The instinctive reaction to lash out, to kill,kill,kill, is so strong, Yussuf suffers three resurrections and Nicolo, who is closer, less careful, more caring, five. They don’t hold it against her, only continue talking, soothing, comforting her, until they finally get her back, until she finds her way to them, above the primal instincts guiding her into survival and little else.</p><p> </p><p>It is only then that she can tell them. Only then, the full horror unfolds. She cries and screams in pain, like they have never seen her before, staggering under the onslaught of despair, the weight of all too recent memories. Too recent, yet not recent enough. Quynh is gone. Andromache saw them put her into an iron cage, fastening chains and locks. She doesn’t know, where they took her from there, she doesn’t know, where to search. Only that they are too late, too late, too late.</p><p> </p><p>And the only thing, they can do, is pick up the pieces and work out, what happened. And then… whoever is responsible will find out, what three enraged immortals can do.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>It is Nicolo, waking the priest in the dead of the night. If it was Andromache, he probably wouldn’t be answering any questions anymore, because he would be all too busy screaming. Even with the silent presence of the youngest immortal, he pisses himself instantly, the looming shadow of two more in the background. “Think of him as your confessor!”, Yussuf growls from the door, Andromache chimes in, explaining, how much exactly it is unadvised to start screaming. In painstaking detail.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo himself is his usual silent self, the eyes understanding, nonjudgmental, cool, no matter how much his heart is burning. They play their parts, and do it masterly. Stammering the priest declares, how he did it all in best intension, how he tries to safe his community from evil, how all he did was justified before God.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo very slowly folds his arms before him, a striking depiction of doubt. The priest is too dumb or too scared to understand, so Yussuf translates for Nicolo word for word: “Do you believe in the mercy of God, the ten commandments, the sacrifice of Jesus and the saints? If so, how can you hate what is different, how can you hurt, what never intended to hurt you? Only confession stands between you and the abyss of hell. Confess the darkness to find the light.”</p><p> </p><p>The effect is quite opposite to the intended, the priest finds some hidden courage and his self-righteous opinions. He berates Nicolo for abusing the sacred teachings, rambles on about the evil within men and the danger from witches. But it serves its purpose, as he brags, how at least one of them will never plague the world no more, exiled to the floor of the sea, a deed performed by a ship, departing a week ago.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf has heard enough and shuts him up, indefinitely, shrugging apologetically and grumbling: “He insulted you, my love, and you are far too gentle.” Not like Nicolo would have let him live…</p><p> </p><p>But even Yussuf has difficulties putting the ice-cold killer with bow and sword into the same place as the caring, compassionate friend, he knows. And even Nicolo can barely explain why they coexist. And how.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>When they arrive at the harbor, no ship in sight, Andromache eventually has the meltdown, Yussuf and Nicolo have secretly been waiting for. Seeing the empty dock, the abandoned wharves, the unforgiving salty water lapping at the shore, cold spray in the air, the smell of rotting algae and fish, the miserable picture before them, depicts the finality of Quynh’s disappearance, the enormity of their task to get her back.</p><p> </p><p>It leaves Andromache guilty, hurting, devastated. She falls on her knees, crying, screaming; sounds, barely identifiable as human in their dread and broken shrillness. They have to carry her from the shore, petrified by pain. Yussuf speaks to her, in hushed, warm words, Nicolo just holds her close, throwing all his feelings for her into the scales to keep her alive, to keep her sane. They take turns, watching the harbor, for when the ship returns, never leaving her alone, when the next day the catch her, trying to sneak into the cold waters.</p><p> </p><p>They make her promise, to never do it again, swear in return to do everything they can to get Quynh back – as if it was something, that needed saying.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf crashes next, a few months later. They are on their hunt for each and every sailor, who ever served on the ship, as it never returned to the first harbor, forcing them to find the men one by one, making their task so much harder.</p><p> </p><p>It happens in a split second, without them even noticing immediately. One minute he is fully aware of everything, a witty, sharp questioner, adding just the right pressure into the mixture to make the man talk. The next, the sailor is dead, yet he continues to pound into him, reducing his body to mush. Unaware, of what he is even doing, sobbing breathlessly. It is mere luck, that they approached the now dead men unseen, giving them some privacy.</p><p> </p><p>Carefully, Nicolo tries to separate him from the body, one fist at a time, one step after the other, whispering into his ear, how it will get better, how they will not stop searching, how Yussuf has done everything he could and does not need to feel guilty. Andromache all the while keeps watch, so they aren’t disturbed. There is little else they can do, no matter, how hard they try. There are no miraculous news, no revelations, nothing to offer as comfort. They are all equally lost, equally full of guilt, equally shaken.</p><p> </p><p>They can’t even imagine, how it must be, being thrown overboard from a ship, drowning, waking, drowning again, and again. And again.</p><p> </p><p>Yussuf, unsurprisingly, deals better with it than Andromache, finding his way back, sheepishly, guiltily watching his blood-covered hands, when he is himself again. It’s not, that he really thinks, the sailor could have given them any additional information. After asking the captain, the mates, the quartermaster, going after the sailors is vain hope, only a withering straw, ripped from their hands. But ruining a chance, however small…</p><p> </p><p>He almost breaks down again in Nicolo’s arms, merely stopped by the fact that he would put them in even more severe danger, if they can’t leave very soon.</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Kneel.” Reluctantly he obeys. Reluctant, but not slow. Disobedience has a price he doesn’t want to pay. There is a rustle of fabric behind him, but he does not turn. Another lesson, learned well, paying off now. He trembles, eyes shut tightly, fists and jaw clenched. A hand touches his back. “Pray.” He bows, until his brow touches the cold floor, exposing him uncomfortably.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>His heart races, his breath catches in his chest, until a single, high-pitched whine escapes. No! He did so well until now.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Behind him, a dissatisfied tsk. “We speak no evil, for with our words, evil escapes into the world. We suffer in silence, so our sins can be forgiven. Only in prayer, our voices are to be heard.” With the last words, the crack of a belt on his bare flesh shoves him forward. Only after some more, each a heavy blow, he manages to remain silent, not even a sigh indicating his discomfort. His face streaked with tears, his body tensed beyond measure, his fingertips bloody from breaking the nails on the rough floor, he endures, until it is over.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He will be better next time, do better. He will be silent, he will be silent. He will be silent.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A year and a half later, he is ushered away in silence. The bishop prefers his meat fresh.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-----</em>
</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, since he is immortal, Nicolo wakes up screaming. Trapped in his blanket he fights, he fights. Pounds his fists against the shadows holding him down, struggles under the heavy weight that keeps him on the ground, bites, scratches, kicks. A wild animal, on its last stand to stay alive.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing ever was good, because he didn’t speak it; fate never spared him nor the ones he loved. Evil came into the world anyways, evil broke him down, evil violated him and everything he believed, evil robbed his voice.</p><p> </p><p>He screams again, wordlessly, painfully, ending in sobs and whimpers. Fights on, until the weight is removed. Runs. Runs. Fading into the darkness, fleeing from who knows what, until the dreams are left behind, until the footsteps following him fall silent, or so he believes.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>The morning sun finds him, cowered on some ledge, the wind playing with his hair, staring into the distance. “Nicolo?” A familiar voice.</p><p> </p><p>He should know it, but it takes him embarrassingly long to identify the speaker. Forcedly relaxing his body, he stands up and turns. “I am here.” The voice is hoarse, he doesn’t know, if it from screaming or from disuse.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, as if nearing a barely tamed beast, Yussuf comes closer. “Please, come down.” He extends his hand, but doesn’t step any closer anymore, as if fearing, Nicolo might jump. Or fall.</p><p> </p><p>But he need not worry. The storm has passed, the devastation, it left behind, is complete, but necessary. Nicolo chews his lip a little, before sighing, easing his beloved’s concerns, by stepping into his arms, albeit hesitantly. “It’s alright.” Strange, how he finds himself comforting Yussuf, while his love thought, the opposite might be true. Strange also, how his voice is different. Stronger, more secure. The words no longer guiltily stolen in fear of retaliation. They don’t come easier. He has been silent for so long, the need for words disappeared. But he can and will speak. In time.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>They never stop looking. They never give up. When there is no more sailor to interrogate, they examine the trading routes. When the trading routes fail them, they learn how to dive. They get diverted, occupied, time and time again. The world doesn’t stop around them, and they cannot let people suffer by standing on the side lines. But they never stop looking.</p><p> </p><p>And Nicolo learns. Talking. Speaking. When they ever find Quynh, he wants to be able to thank her. He wants to tell her, what she meant for him. He wants to guide her back, as she guided him. He never gets into the habit of using many words. No small talk with him, no prattling. And he seldom speaks to strangers.</p><p> </p><p>When they find their new youngest immortal, a Frenchman named Le Livre, it takes him more than a decade to speak more than single-word sentences. The first words: “You moron!” for what he did with their morning coffee. The pure blasphemy of adding spirits to it is unspeakable. He is faster with Nile, finding himself at peace, at serenity, offering her, what she needs, what he failed to offer Sebastien. But even then…</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t stop talking either. Not even with Booker. Not even in exile. Every evening, when they are not on a mission, like a clockwork, he goes for a walk, taking with him a burner, he only uses for this single reason, checking in with his mislead brother, telling him, he cares, telling him, he needs to find his way back, needs to forgive himself, not only the betrayal, but before that, staying alive, when his family died. Being different. Being himself.</p><p> </p><p>Many words, where there were so little. A guiding light, a lifeline for his youngest brother lost. Most important: he listens. Confessor and priest again, as he does best.</p><p> </p><p>One day, when he calls, there is a silence in the line. Booker grinning wordlessly, his breath strangely halted. “Nicky… There is someone here, who doesn’t believe, you talk to me.”</p><p> </p><p>He gasps and coughs. “Hand her the phone and let me show her!”, he urges. When Booker does, he tells her, he loves her, pleads her to come back. For Andromache. For Yussuf. For him. He can hear her disbelief and her joy. He can hear her sadness and her fears. Yet she promises. In time.</p><p> </p><p>When he finishes the call, he can’t help but run, run to the point of exhaustion, just to set the energy he feels free. She will come home and she will heal, and then, with her help, he will make sure, Booker also finds home. In time.</p><p> </p><p>Nicolo never felt so full of life, never felt so complete. Though in the end… when he comes home, despite the questioning looks of all three, Andromache, Yussuf, Nile, there is still silence. When his heart is full, his lips remain empty. As always.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>An End, not the End... For thinking of <em>the</em> End isn't fitting for immortals</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so sorry for everyone hoping for more than this one last chapter, but it feels right to end it like this. It has been a hell of a ride for me, very emotional, both during writing and for your kind and helpful comments. I hope, you enjoy this one last chapter, and I hope, your questions are answered. Please let me know, if you are missing something. If so, I am very willing to make adjustments, for these characters have really grown on me and I will very likely write smaller pieces in between, when the mood strikes me. <br/>Until then: thanks to everyone for joining me through this. It has been my longest and most mature piece of writing as yet and at the start I didn't think, I would be able to finish it. <br/>I am proud and humbled at equal measures. <br/>To me, it feels like ending on a high note. <br/>Have fun, stay safe, merry christmas and a better new year for all of you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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